No Country for the Old
by Operative12
Summary: The Long Night draws near. Daenerys Targaryen lands at the Wall, ready to sweep the continent from top to bottom with her forces, but is she strong enough to save Westeros from the horrors beyond the Wall? As Winter's grip grows ever more harsh, Jon Snow, a man who has lost everything, must go on the run when he and Daenerys are targeted by a mysterious assassin. Will love prevail?
1. Chapter 1

_The bitter night air stung at her skin. It was an odd and unfamiliar feeling. It was unlike the slow continuous cold that slowly froze bone and blood and lulled many a man into a gentle, endless sleep. It was more like a wild, starved animal one that gnawed bit at its prey until the body simply could not carry on and succumb to its icy fangs._

 _No matter how big a fire you lit or what clothes you wore this far North the cold reigned supreme. She reflected briefly on what the teachings of the red priests, how their God fought to liberate the world from darkness and cold._

' _You certainly lost the battle up here' she thought darkly as she pulled her cloak slightly tighter around her small frame._

 _As bad as the cold was, there was a peacefulness in its vast tundra and frigid woods, a harsh beauty and brutal serenity, a far contrast to the blood soaked nest of betrayal and death that was the South. 'It is a wonder that any remains' she thought, without bitterness or blame but with an immense sadness that almost threatened to overwhelm her. The smallfolk that lay dead in their burnt fields, the lone soldier bleeding to death, while his comrades lay still around him. 'They do not look very different when they are dead' she realised 'Lannister's, Bolton's, Baratheon's, Tyrells, and … Targaryen's all the same' it was a sombre thought_.

 _She had led them across the sea to the sunset kingdoms, to claim what was rightly hers. They could not land the ships anywhere below the Neck for the war for the Iron Throne waged to fiercely along the coast for miles. They had to go north very far north. 'It is fitting' she had thought when the ships had made land within site of the Wall, 'We will sweep Westeros from top to bottom'. But she had been a different Women then, much younger more full of hope, a Women who had not seen a true war. True Horror._ -

Her Dragons had not minded the cold when they landed, if anything they had glowed hotter, delicate snowflakes melting of their scales as they touched. It was to be a grand entrance into EastWatch by the sea, the triumphant return of the rightful heir to the throne. It had been anything but.

The handful of ragged black brothers had looked upon her procession of Unsullied, Dothraki, freedmen and sell swords with sullen eyes. Even her dragons did not garner the attention she had hoped for. Granted a few of the crows had stood with mouths agape and eyes wide with astonishment and no small degree of fear, the rest had simply looked impassive as Drogon landed atop the wall. 'We've seen the true monsters' their deathly silence seemed to say 'We've seen the true doom of this world'.

"This is Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen" Ser Jorah had bellowed once the procession of soldiers had stopped," She is the rightful Queen and heir to the Iron Throne"

"Aye" cried out a voice in black," We know who she is."

"You will address the queen" he stressed the word," as 'Your Grace' or 'Your Highness'"

The black brother simply grunted," What would 'Her Grace' want with the lowly likes of us" he said, his mocking tone dripped from every syllable.

"I would speak with your Lord Commander" Dany spoke with her own voice "and ask for his hospitallit-"She got no further.

"We're not an Inn for fugitive royals." The man spoke with a strange flatness," Unless you and your army are going to sit atop that damned Wall and help us 'Guard the Realms of men' I suggest that you take your dragons and your army and bugger off"

Dany could practically hear Mormont fuming with indignation, she decided to adopt a more peaceful route," And what your name be" she inquired of the outspoken Brother.

"Me?" he replied sarcastically," I'm just the cattle thief who slays the risen dead and makes sure that you nobles can go on playing your bloody Game of Thrones in peace."

"I could have your head if I so choose." She replied coldly

The man let loose a bitter laugh," With all due respect, I'd simply get right back up"

The awkward silence continued for some time until the man finally broke it," Name's Cotter Pyke" he said simply," I'll send message to Lord Snow that you've arrived."

Drogon suddenly roared from atop the Wall but Pyke didn't even grunt," With that racket going on" he jerked his thumb upwards," he probably already knows."

Her army inland marched inland from the ocean following the gargantuan Wall towards its centre, where the tumbled ruins of the Watch's greatest 'stronghold' lay. That had not surprised her, Jorah had told her that the Night's watch was less than a shadow of its once great strength.

What had surprised her was the young commander of the Crows, he was dark of hair and eyes. He was pale, not the pale of a fair skin like she was but pale as if the very blood had frozen in his veins. Ser Jorah had hissed behind her when he saw the Young man, Dany did not need to be told why, from what she had heard of him this boy was the spitting image of Eddard Stark. The man who had exiled Jorah for Slaving. Yet there was something about the way that the leader of the Nights Watch had carried himself that suggested that, despite his relative youth, he was burdened by almost a lifetime of memories and thoughts. Burdened by those he had lost, burdened by those he had yet to lose.

He had spoken to her with a stiff courtesy "Your Grace" he had bowed, "The wall is yours." He had said before stalking off as if she was a simple peasant who had wanted to stay the night. Dany did not need to be told why, her brother had kidnapped his aunt and her father had burnt his uncle and grandfather alive but it still chastised her nonetheless.

"Insolent boy isn't he" Jorah had remarked, Daenerys simply said nothing

It was later that afternoon when Dany crossed paths with the Lord Commander again. This time however he had brought two of his black clad men, riding atop black mounts. 'A gloomy colour to fit a gloomy life' she thought as the small procession approached her command tent, where her army had made their camp, outside the ruinous castle. She had thought it best not to try antagonize the Crows further by trying to take up residence in one of the towers, at least not yet.

The new arrivals to her camp finally dismounted, she could tell that the two lieutenants were looking at Rhaegal dozing peacefully on a snowless patch of ground while his brethren ranged up and down the wall, but The Bastard of Winterfell's brown eyes never left her Violet ones.

He spoke to the Dragon Queen in his Northern accent," Your Grace" he said respectfully giving a formal bow, his men did not even indicate that they had seen. He wore a near identical garb to that of all the other Black Brothers she had seen nothing stood out about him, bar the Wolf pommel sword at his belt.

Dany gestured towards the open tent flap, an indication that she wanted to take the conversation out of the cold. He gave a small nod and signalled the two men to remain outside. Dany graciously stepped within the warmer confines of the tent and he had followed suit. Within the tent a table and some chairs had been set up. They sat down.

"I must apologise for my conduct in the yard earlier Your Grace" he began, "You've come at a ah difficult time" he said carefully. She could see that he was choosing his words. "Stannis Baratheon broke his camp and marched for Winterfell not a fortnight ago, after I had allowed him the Watch's hospitality." He paused slightly," This has not made the most popular commander amongst the men, that and the fact that we will soon be settling the wildlings upon the Gift- "

"The wildlings?!" the Queen reacted with no small degree of shock " My advisor told me that the Night's Watch and the Wilding's have been at war for centuries and now to give them land! South of the Wall no less, no wonder the men are dubious of your command" She winced slightly internally. 'That sounded harsh' she had thought. She expected that he would be offended or at least show some form of emotion, however, he surprised her once again.

His face remained impassive, but his eyes grew clouded, as if he was seeing something that Dany could not.

"Times are changing, Your Grace" he said evenly," and so are seasons, Winter is Coming, and something is coming with it, something far worse than wildlings"

There they were she thought, the infamous Stark words. Words that did not boast, threaten or impress. They were words that promised of darker, harder times ahead. Despite the Woollen travelling fleece and pants she was wearing, Deanery's felt a shiver move down her spine.

In Meeren she had simply laughed at tails of Wight's and Other's and seen them as folklore, a tail designed to frighten children, but here, at the end of the World, in the shadow of the Wall, those once seemingly benign tails seemed much harder to just dismiss.

"You know of what I speak" He said not asking, but telling her. He stood. "When the dead march on the Wall and the sun hides its face behind black clouds and impenetrable snows, we are all that stands between them and the rest of the world, a thin line of black to guard a realm." He looked Daenerys directly the eyes, she could see the intensity in his," When that time comes' Your Grace' it won't matter who is sitting atop the Throne, all that will matter is who is brave… and who is dead"

He strode past her to the flap of the tent, he turned towards her briefly," I'll send a wagon of supplies this evening, as a token of … goodwill." He said before vanishing into the blizzard outside.

Daenerys sat at the table long after he had left, pondering the things she'd heard. She heard Ser Barristan slips into the tent.

"What's his name?" she asked as the old knight took a seat at the table.

"They call him the Bastard of Winterfell, but his name is Jon, Jon Snow" He replied.

"What can you tell me of him" She said, with her head resting on her palm gazing down at the table.

"I didn't find much" Ser Barristan conceded, "but I did find something of interest Your Grace."

"Go on" she said.

"It appears, from what I have gathered from the men that while on a mission beyond the Wall Lord Snow took a wildling girl into his bed, she was later killed during the attack on castle Black and he refuses to speak of her."

Dany knew that pain, she knew the feeling of losing someone, her husband and later Daario had both died. It was not a pleasant experience to say the least.

"A wagon should arrive tonight. See to it that everything is distributed to those in need." She said, finally turning to face him.

Ser Barristan nodded and left the Queen to her thoughts.

When Jon arrived back at Castle Black, he managed to successfully use the cover of the blizzard to avoid the no doubt 'inquisitive' brothers and slip quietly into his quarters. It was bad enough after all the trouble with Stannis and the Wildlings, but to have another army and monarch, lest not forget the dragons, camped outside the small Castle might be too much for some of the Night's Watch. What would they say about him in the history books he wondered? Would they speak of the bastard who rose high or the boy who had broken his vows?

Jon hadn't exactly been shocked when he heard the news of the Targaryen Queens arrival. The entire realm seemed to be trying to tear itself apart, that another player had joined the fray concerned Jon very little. He had no more stake in the game, nothing to lose, not anymore.

That night dinner proved to be an interesting affair.

After the plates had more-or-less been emptied, and the chatter died down, Jon stood to address his brothers.

"If you've got a pair of working eyes, you'll probably have noticed that an army began putting up tents around Castle Black." There were a number of grumbles but otherwise the hall quietened.

"Now, just to dispel any rumours you might've heard" Jon said," It is indeed the Last Targaryen who is camped beyond our battlements. Now I don't need to remind you that we still have a duty to protect and serve the Realm, so I don't want anyon-"

Pyp's hand suddenly shot up, Jon gave him the signal to speak, "With all due respect, Lord Commander, could you please tell these people that are job isn't to feed, clothe and shelter them we barely have enough for our own!"

Jon replied," They have brought their own food, drink and supplies we need not give them anything."

This time it was Dolorous Edd that spoke up," And how long do you think those wagon's of food will last Sir, how long do you think it'll be before they come knocking for ' just a few rolls spare' and before you know it the cellars empty."

"I'll speak to the Queen Tomorrow. I'll tell her that she and her army can't stay more than a few months."

Jon felt sure that he could sense a change in the atmosphere when he'd mentioned the 'Queen'. He could see that many of them had heard of the young Targaryen girls beauty and wished to simply 'look' upon it themselves. 'I must tread carefully here' Jon thought. All it would take was for one of his men to act 'inappropriately' and she would have a reason and means to burn down castle black. 'I won't be another Northern victim of Dragon fire' Jon thought. 'I know I'm not to die by fire' he thought grimly.

The next morning dawned clear and cloudless, a far cry to the heavy Blizzard that swept across the Wall just a few days ago. Jon felt a heavy, extra weight on his bed and immediately realised what it was. Ghost lay curled up at his master's feet, eyes closed but still alert, he made for quite the guard dog. Jon knew that he should scold the Wolf and tell him to get off, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it, not this morning. Instead he gave the Wolf a good stroking down his back. Ghost opened his red eyes and sat up before jumping off the bed and keening at the door. Big dogs were still just dogs at heart, Jon supposed before letting Ghost out.

He remembered that he had another meeting with the Queen today and decided to dress as simply as he had yesterday. With any luck the meeting would be finished before midday, he had logistics to pour over, Jon thought gloomily.

Jon was greeted by a brisk but thankfully clear morning, he could hear Castle Black coming to life around him and behind that the sounds of the camp where his destination lay. Jon decided against taking the horses into what would now be a complete slurry of melted snow and ice in the camp and instead opted to travel on foot with his two aids.

The brothers stuck out like a sore thumb in the camp, despite the cold of the Wall seemingly having the ability to sap most colours the camp was vibrant, exotic and colourful. 'Disciplined too' Jon noted with silent approval. Especially the Grey clad spearmen.

The Queens tent was set up almost in the middle of the camp. It was larger and more regal in appearance than the other temporary dwellings of the camp. The Targaryen waited for Jon by the covered entrance to the tent. She too wore similar garb to their previous meeting except now with the addition of a fur cloak.

"Good morning your Grace." He said bowing as naturally as he could. He could almost hear Ygritte laughing at him, he'd become a kneeler, first to Stannis Baratheon and now to this foreign queen, her lost was like an old wound. It never healed. 'You haven't learned anything Jon Snow' he thought as he rose and spoke to the Queen

"I trust the night wasn't too hard. The Northern weather can be very harsh on newcomers." He said, trying to keep his pride out of his voice. No matter what, the North was his home, no matter who sat the iron throne would change that. 'The Others might' spoke a voice within Jon's head. A voice that grew stronger every day.

"The night was uneventful." The Queen replied offhandedly as if she'd detected the note of pride in his voice. She indicated that they move inside and Jon again ordered his men to stand watch.

Daenerys watched as for the second day in a row, Jon Snow climbed into her tent and took a seat at the table. She moved around and took her own seat. His face was completely impassive again, she thought that she had heard something in his voice outside that might've passed for pride here in the North, but by now any trace of that was gone.

"Your Grace" he began," Unfortunately due to our dwindled food stores, we will not be able to provide your army with any rations should your own food supply run dry."

"Fear not Lord Snow, we should not be here more than a few months, we will let the war take its course before we decide to march. We should have ample rations to last six months." She replied. They discussed matters of supplies for a while before Jon rose from his chair

"Thank you, if that is all I will take my leave." He said formally,

"Tell me about your father Jon Snow" She said suddenly trying to catch him off guard. His face didn't change but she could now sense a guarded look in his eyes as if his mental shields had gone up. He turned to face her but didn't sit back down.

"Why would you want to know that?" He said carefully.

"If I am to rule over these lands one day, I must know the people and the rulers who have preceded me."

He sat back down," My father was a good man, just, caring and honourable."

"An honourable man, who rose against his rightful King?" She said raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"The same King who demanded his head on a pike shortly after killing his father and brother." Jon replied coldly.

"He was still his King." Daenerys said with a trace of heat in her voice.

"He was insane." Jon said flatly," He burnt men alive for amusement and tried to ensure that all of Kings Landing perished with him. I doubt he even knew right from wrong towards the end."

She stood up suddenly, starring daggers at Jon with her violet eyes ," You are referring to when the Lannister he called a guard opened his throat."

"I have no love for the Lannister's, but can you say with conviction that it didn't need to be done?" Jon said rising from his seat as well.

"Who the hell do you think you are, to talk to me like that!?" She yelled at him. Anger clearly evident on her face.

He simply stared at the enraged Queen and in a voice that could freeze the Summer Sea," I'm just a bastard your Grace I don't know anything." He made as if to leave but before he stepped outside "When you decide to march on Winterfell, Your Grace, don't forget that the North Remembers."

She simply stared at the back of his head fuming at his arrogance, her fists were tightly balled and pressed against the table. 'Damn him' she thought' him and his whole bloody country can burn in hell'. She realised that she was shaking in rage. 'Why do you care what some baseborn, traitors son thinks, you're the Mother of Dragons' it was a question she couldn't quiet answer.

Grenn looked at Jon as he stepped out of the tent, with no dragons around to occupy his attention today, he had clearly heard at least some part of the heated exchange. "Later" Jon told him quietly.

"Is she mad?" he persisted," Mad like her father?"

"Later Grenn" Jon said with force. Grenn simply shrugged. No one said a word the rest of the way back to Castle Black.

For three days Jon waited, waited for dragons to swoop from above and burn his home to the ground. For three days all that happened was a few more grumbles from the Crows about Wildlings and foreigners. Jon didn't regret his actions, he would be damned if he let anyone, even her, speak ill of his father, but he did concede that he had been perhaps a bit harsh on the young queen. 'It doesn't matter about what you think now the damage is done'. He had kept Ghost by his side since the confrontation, he found comfort in having the silent wolf by his side though he seriously doubted if Ghost could provide a match for a dragon.

However, when the Queen finally did show what her reaction was, it was not one of blood and fire but rather an olive branch of peace, delivered to Jon but none other than Barristan Selmy himself.

Ghost had pricked his ears at the man's approach, Jon had turned to face the man who was a living legend across the Seven Kingdoms.

Selmy had strolled right through the yard of castle Black up to Jon.

"Her Grace, Queen Daenerys Stormborn, requests a meeting with you tomorrow evening." He said calmly.

Jon tried hard not to keep his mouth from falling open.

"Did her Grace s…say why she wishes such a meeting?" he finally stammered, thoroughly shocked.

"No, she didn't." The old knight replied, "But I do believe that it has something to do with what … transpired the other day." He raised an eyebrow.

"Does she expect an apology from me?" he inquired, cautiously.

"I suppose that you'll just have to ask her yourself." He said, eyeing Jon curiously," Good day to you Lord Snow." He said before walking away.

Jon paced up and down his chambers for much of the next day, what would the history books say about him? The Lord Commander who let the wildlings through the Wall and entertained the dragons.

The sun had fallen low in the sky by the time Jon realised that the day had slipped away from him. With a slight sigh he stopped his pondering and forced himself to get ready for his meeting with the Queen.

She had asked her attendants to try and keep fire pits lit throughout the camp, in order to try and keep the incessant cold at bay. It wasn't that there was a shortage of wood, far from it actually, but the incessant snows and midnight blizzards constantly doused the flames in slush.

Daenerys wore simple clothes beneath her thick fur coat, she had quickly learned that in the North practicality always won over aesthetics. However, she still took time to adorn and braid her platinum hair. She thought ahead to her next meeting with The Lord Crow, she hoped that it didn't go as badly as the last one, she winced slightly at the memory. It wasn't that she wasn't still angry at the words he had said, but she had learnt something very important from the encounter: The northerners were honourable, fiercely loyal and not the type who forgave easily, she would have to remember that during her journey south.

She would have to try and find a way to appease the realm, to show them that she wasn't anything like her father. 'Starting with tonight' she thought. She wasn't sure why she had called for a meeting with Lord Snow especially after his words had nearly warranted treason last time. She reasoned that if she could convince him that she truly was the best candidate for Queen, then she could convince anyone.

When she left the confines of her tent she was greeted by Ser Barristan, four unsullied soldiers and the bitter cold. The Soldiers maintained a respectful distance around her and Ser Barristan as trudged towards Castle Black in the watery moonlight.

He didn't ask her about the meetings purpose and they hardly spoke, but she felt reassured by his presence nonetheless.

Lord Snow greeted them at the unofficial 'entrance' to castle black flanked by two of his own men, even from a distance she noticed the guarded stance he took and as the two groups converged it became clear to her that he too had not forgotten their last meeting.

He spoke first," Beg your pardon your Grace, but I've arranged for us to sup in the Kings Tower as, despite its appearance, it is far more befitting than the armoury."

"Lead the way, Lord Snow." She replied.

He led the party to an oaken door and gestured for them to move inside. Daenerys in an attempt to off-balance the young Lord Commander ordered her guards, bar Ser Barristan, to remain outside. Almost reluctantly he ordered his men to do the same.

The tower interior was a welcome change from the cold but it was drafty nonetheless. The dinner was nothing exquisite but it might have passed as a banquet among the Crows. The air was tense and awkward as both sides tried to carefully step around the elephant in the room. In order to break the ice Dany brought up the topic of The War of the Five Kings and how it affected the realm. She sensed that this too was a personal topic for Snow but they were able to at least agree on certain points.

She gleaned that the death of his brother had been hard for him and that he was closer to his family than he cared to mention. She tried to empathise but found she could not, she had only ever had Viserys for family and he was…. Difficult.

Eventually when the food was finished and Ser Barristan had seemingly come to the conclusion that Jon would not try to poison his Queen, he took his leave, saying that he wished to meet with Ser Allister Thorne to discuss the situation at Wall, leaving the two virtually alone.

Eventually after a prolonged silence, she spoke directly to him.

"What's it like on the Wall?" she was curious and didn't wish to enter into another shouting match with him.

He replied simply and rather flatly, "Cold."

She gave a snort of laughter, before rising from her seat," Show me."

His eyes widened in surprise, "What… what would you like to see your grace?"

She took some small pleasure in finally having caught him off guard, "The Wall."

His mouth hung open for a while before he responded," At this …. At this time of night?"

"Yes." She answered simply.

He finally seemed to have regained some of his composure, "But, your Grace, why?" there was a hint of suspicion in his voice now but he finally rose from his chair.

"I wish to see the edge of the Kingdom that my ancestors ruled." She carefully avoided saying 'my father'. As she strode towards the door, wondering if Lord Snow was even following her. _He bloody well better be_ she thought.

Snow easily matched her step as she strode across the courtyard. Her cowl drawn up against the incessant oppression of the weather. Four Unsullied guardsmen followed at a respectful distance. Dany did not feel afraid, she told herself that her fear had died long ago. Died with her unborn child. The odd pair moved in silence towards the cage that would carry them to the top, Dany had considered using Drogon to get her to the top of the wall, but her control of the beast was tenuous at best, and she would look a right fool if he simply refused to move once she mounted him.

The ride to the top was nerve racking, not because she feared heights, but because the cage rattled and shook with every breath. She noticed that Snow didn't notice the constant swaying and rattling, his eyes had a faraway look in them, and the silence between them stretched the journey to almost agonizing length. The two guards who joined them made the cage cramped. Dany was sure the weight of four people would send the rickety box plummeting to its doom.

A few fires burnt at sporadic intervals around them, but the Wall was shrouded in silence.

"Follow me" Snow told her simply, leading her and her small escort away from the small number of Crows who hung about the area like shadows.

He marched further than expected, beyond the point where the torch light flickered out. They marched in Darkness for a while, until finally he came to a guttering bracketed torch and halted, he glanced briefly at the Guards and Dany signalled them to take up a watch position at a distance on either side. Snow turned to her.

"Look out there" he gestured to the darkness beyond "What do you see?" his voice was soft.

"Nothing, it's just shadows out there" she suddenly felt struck by the immensity of uncharted land that lay beyond the Wall, land of mystery and magic.

"Ay not one living thing is out there yet still that Darkness is coming for us, an army larger and more powerful than any that has existed before"

Up there at the end of the world, she believed, she believed the resignation in his voice, the acceptance of failure in his tone. She believed in what caused it.

"I have dragons, I have an army. When I'm Queen I'll send thousands to hold the wall"

"Send your dragons, send your armies, your legions of followers. It doesn't matter, it's hopeless. Even if every man, women and child in the world manned this wall, it wouldn't matter" He looked at her with eyes that had lost everything. She saw a man who had lost his home, family and worst his reason to continue, his motivation to get up. She saw a broken man.

"We can't stop what's coming" he finished quietly.

"What is coming, Jon Snow?"

"The End." He replied simply.

"I think you doubt the power of Dragons their breath is molte-"

"Don't you fucking get it? Burn ten thousand and thirty thousand will rise out of the dirt to take their place, no matter what we do, how many of those creatures we destroy, it doesn't mean shit. The Others have been preserving the dead for over a thousand years, keeping them ready under the snow until they call them, slay a million and it'll be a small setback for them. Nothing more. It's over" He pointed South of the Wall "they just don't know it yet."

Jon realised that it had all been a show, a farce. All his talk of being brave and confronting the horror beyond the Wall was just that, talk. In his heart of hearts he knew that he had given up a long time ago, he kept on doing what he did, because he didn't know what else to do. There was nothing else to do but continue even if he knew it was pointless.

His acceptance of defeat and hopelessness in his voice shocked her. He had been beaten, in his mind the battle was already lost. He looked over the edge and gazed into that endless void of blackness beyond the wall. He seemed to take half a step forward, a step towards the edge. Her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

'Gods he was about to jump wasn't he' she thought alarmed. Slowly he turned and looked at her. There was no suicidal madness in his eyes, no fevered delusion. Just acceptance and, despite her belief that her fear had died, that terrified her.

"You can't give up, those men down there believe in you, they trust in you."

"Most of them want to kill me" he said flatly, "You should ride south Your Grace, play your game of thrones while you still can. With luck the dead won't reach the South for years, decades even. You could grow old down there, raise a family, make a home and enjoy the warmth while it lasts, but up here" he gave his head a slight shake.

"This, this world of cold, ice and snow." He gestured around.

"It's no country for the Old."

 **So while I'd love to say that I'm going to update this regularly I know, that even though I'd like to, life can get very busy very quickly. If you'd like me to continue drop a review letting me know how I can improve and what you thought of the story.**


	2. Chapter 2

"It's no country for the Old"

The words tasted bitter in Jon's mouth, they tasted bitter because he knew them to be true. He knew that even if he survived until his middle ages, he would never be an old man, this land was too cruel, too unforgiving. He wondered if he had been about to jump, the moment seemed a blur as if it was someone else's actions and he was merely watching. He barely felt Daenerys release her grip on his wrist, his mind was too fixed on the endless darkness beyond. He stood on the border between the South and the North between the living and the dead, but both realms were shrouded in darkness and shadow.

"Come with me when I ride South" Daenerys said softly almost warmly, "You're Eddard Starks only surviving son, the Northern lords will listen to you, rally the North to me and we'll build an army bigger than the worlds ever known, an army big enough to stop the dead."

He admired her optimism, her confidence, her belief that no problem was insurmountable but it showed how young she was. Fate hadn't dealt her a perfect hand, true, but she'd been lucky. Birthing living weapons, finding refuge, help or a coincidence just when she needed it the most. Instead of filling him with hope that she could deliver on her promise it only filled Jon with dread. 'Luck runs out eventually' and he had no intention of being between three dragons and whatever force finally brought the girls dreams crashing down.

"I thank you for the offer Your Grace but no, I won't be a new player in the damn game. I've no desire to march to some glorious victory, not if it leaves thousands dead in the mud."

She almost seemed to bristle.

"Well then, thank you for the insight Lord Commander, but it is late and I should retire."

"I wish you the best Your Grace…" she turned to leave "but remember that every man you kill on your way to the throne, every body you leave behind, is another levy in their army"

"I'll keep it in mind" She said icily before stalking off. 'She still doesn't understand' he thought grimly 'she thinks that once she's queen she'll somehow be able to stop them, all she'll do is leave more corpses, more destruction.'

He stared out into the blackness until he was sure the Queen had ridden the cage back to the ground. She was too young, and arrogant but life would teach her, he thought sadly, life would be harsh to her as it had been to him, to all of the Nights Watch.

The lands beyond the wall both scared and fascinated him. He had been into the haunted forest, the lands held by wildlings, but what was beyond that, what was out there further North than any living being had been before? It was a mystery perhaps the Mystery. It was these thoughts that he pondered as he slowly walked back to the cage, offering the few brothers he saw words of encouragement that he hoped sounded genuine. He was just glad none tried to plant a dagger in his back. By the time he returned to the Armory, the torches had burnt down to studs that guttered and flickered with every breeze.

Ghost bounded to him as he opened the door to his sleeping quarters, the wolf's warmth and presence helped lift his melancholy somewhat. The mountain of papers on his desk only made him scowl in annoyance he wondered if anyone would care if he just burnt the lot of them, someone probably would. He lit the tallow candles and buried himself in the reports and statistics, the endless letters and complaints.

The growl shock him from his concentration. Ghost sat bolt upright growling softly. Jon could have dismissed it, he could have ignored the Wolfs warning of danger, but he didn't, he'd learned long ago to trust the animal's senses. He stood and moved toward his Wolf. "What is it?" he…

The arrow flew through the window spraying glass and burying itself in the desk with a heavy thud. Jon grabbed Ghost and lay flat on the floor as another feathered shaft flew into the room right into the back of the chair. Another pane exploded as the third struck his bed post.

Jon stayed flat on his stomach crawling towards the door as thuds and shattering continued. He drew his knife 'small good it'll do me'.

He crawled to the corner, to his sword. It was agonisingly slow, time itself seemed to flinch as every shaft flew into his room. The closest whistled just above his head. The assailant was firing blindly, but accurately. Each shot stuck, each shot could have ended his life. The sword was within his grasp now, the corner offering some protection from the barbs that now pin cushioned his room. He grabbed the weapon… and grunted in pain as a shaft buried itself in his booted foot. Using the sword as a crutch he pulled himself to his feet, huddling in the corner of the room as the rain of arrows continued. He counted fifteen all in all. Ghost lay low on his stomach hiding against the wall. He doubted there was a window left in the room. Slowly unlatching the door he glanced into the dim courtyard through his smashed windows exposed. 'Plenty of shadows for an assassin to hide in'.

He readied himself, next he would need to move quickly from the army across the narrow alley to the ruins of one of Castle Blacks many towers. Jon took a deep breath, using his good foot he kicked the door, darted across the alley and…

Felt the shaft whizz by and strike the wall, spraying sparks as it skittered off the stone. He was through the alley. He ran then, Ghost at his side, using the once grand ruins of the castle to flee deeper into the night, his foot bleed, it burned but the wound was far from the worst he'd felt and he pushed on. He would not die alone in this sorry place, struck down from the shadows by an arrow. No more shafts chased him as he reached the outskirts of the castle, ducking into a ruined room, he took a chance to catch his breath. Thought returned to him as the instinctive drive to survive retreated somewhat. He had to leave Castle Black tonight that much was clear in his mind. Someone was out to kill him, and he had no doubt the deadly archer would if remained in the castle. The only questions were: who was the archer and who did he work for? It could be anyone he thought grimly. It was no secret the Nights Watch hated him but could it have been the Queen, trying to kill him if he didn't support her? No, that was a bit of a stretch. It could easily be someone in her camp though. Mormont, Selmy or some lickspittle hoping to earn points by offing the son of one of her father's enemies.

He could trust no one, but he needed a horse, the wound wasn't bad but it would slow him down, and leave a neat trail right to him. The stables were out of the question, to bright and well known, that would be and obvious escape route. He stalked through the night's gloom, the light snowfall shrouding his form.

Light bloomed up ahead, burning glows in the darkness as he got closer the light illuminated a form, a wagon. He staggered to the island of light in the white darkness.

"Stop right there mate" came a gruff voice "What you doing sneakin around this time of night?"

"Where is that wagon headed?" he could hear the pain in his own voice, the wound was troubling him more than he admitted.

"Ain't no concern of yours friend." The voice was firm but not aggressive.

"Darek who are you talking to back there?" came a nasally voice from the canvassed interior.

"Some fella who wandered in from the cold, looks like one of em crows."

"Well send him packing! I want to sleep"

Drawing four gold coins from his pocket Jon held them out to the light so that they glittered.

"It's yours if you take me as far South as possible."

"Listen ere I don't want to get involved with no desert…" the man moved closer to Jon as he spoke, pausing as he saw the long feathered shaft in his foot "Shit".

Jon added another three coins to the handful, "it's yours if we leave now"

"What are you haggling about out there?!"

Gingerly taking the coins, the grizzled man turned back to the wagon, "He's offering money to go South now."

Money. This, the nasal voice understood. "Well how much?"

"Seven Crowns"

"There's more where it came from" Jon grunted, "But we go now and you don't ask questions."

Springing from the wagon the Nasal voice snatched the coins from the Grizzled man. His appearance made it clear he was a merchant and the Grizzled man his guard.

"I won't ask for your names" Jon said slowly, his foot was killing him ,"and you won't get mine, we go now" he gestured at the Wagon.

"Uh yes…. S uh sir" the Merchant stuttered, his eyes glowing at the sight of gold. His voice almost quivering at the strangeness of the situation.

"I'll ride in the back" Jon limped to the wagon and carefully climbed in, wincing when he moved his injured foot. The horses were still hitched and Jon waited until the wheels began to rattle before he loosened his grip on his knife. Ghost had hung back during the ordeal, but he had no doubt that the wolf would follow the wagon, if at a distance.

"If you don't mind me asking, what do we call you, uh I mean if you'd like us to…. Uh your Lordship"

Jon considered the question briefly.

"I don't need a name, in this world I'm just another man."

 **So I had some free time today and decided to update. I hope the story is off to a good start and that I'll be able to continue it. Remember to drop a review if you enjoyed it.**


	3. Chapter 3

" _My Lord Ramsay always said that his father spoke highly of you" Colch said pouring two goblets of wine._

" _He said that you were the best he ever saw, high praise coming from a man who assassinated his own King"_

 _Colch held out the goblet towards him, he didn't take it. The silence stretched. The awkwardness of the situation would be felt by anyone entering the room, but they were alone in the inn's small meeting chamber. Colch's guarded look of careful normality quickly deteriorated into one of challenge, then threat then anger._

" _Well say something!?" he fumed, his too-bright eyes glowing dangerously. Ramsay's sadism only attracted others like him. Colch was one of his favourite lieutenants, his skill with the pincer was second to none._

" _Who are the targets?" the man asked simply._

 _Colch set the goblet down and, the anger still clear on his face, how dare this man rebuff him, how dare this… this cut throat look down on him?! Controlling his desire to torture the fellow, he calmed himself down._

" _The first one is easy, his name is Jon Snow, Eddard Starks only surviving son. He could rally the North against my Lord, so he wants him dead." The man continued to stare at him blankly," the second is more difficult; Daenerys Targaryen, my lord tells me she'll soon make land fall in the North, her army is relatively small but he says she could rally the people around her, but without her presence Lord Ramsay says her army will tear itself apart."_

" _Just those two?" he asked simply._

" _Yes" Colch almost spat, he took the parchment out and smoothed it "Here are the terms of your contract, one thousand gold crowns for Snow and four thousand for the Targaryen girl, you will be supplied with a one hundred gold crowns in traveling expenses." instead of trying to offer the parchment he carefully set it on the table let the fool take it himself. He also dropped several bags of coin onto the parchment._

 _The man just stood there and mocked him with his cold demeanour and blank stare. Another silence. Still the man stood there, looking around with eyes that held no light, no spark or glow just… nothing. Not the glassy eyes of a dead man but the eyes of a man who had never truly been alive._

" _Will there be anything else" Colch asked, barely hidden venom in his voice._

" _The days are getting shorter, the snows colder" The man appeared to be looking out the stained window and at the gentle snowfall beyond._

" _Yes that it is generally what happens during winter"_

" _I've seen winters before but not like this" he said it without emotion, without feeling or passion, but the conviction in his words were undeniable._

 _The man gathered the contract but left the money bags untouched on the table, he then turned as if to leave. Colch decided to try one last thrust to off-balance the strange man._

" _I never got your name?"_

" _Because I did not give it to you" The man said with his back to Colch, his accent strange and foreign._

" _I speak for Lord Ramsay Bolton, Warden of the North you wi-"_

 _Colch made a chocking sound as the long thin, pin like object neatly pierced his windpipe and spinal column in one swift, clean motion, the tip stuck an inch or two out the back of Colch's neck. The Man withdrew the object a second later, pausing to wipe it as Colch crashed to the floor, gurgling incomprehensibly as blood filled his throat, The Man did not even turn to look at him. As Colch chocked his last few breaths, he was already forgotten by The Man. He left the meeting room and the dead man behind as he walked into the common room, carefully shutting the door behind him. A few patrons sat miserably alone or in pairs. Two serving women flitted from table to table, keeping the mugs full. The Man left the Inn and wandered out into the snow._

He had missed his target. It was an irritation but to be expected. The target, Jon Snow, was tougher than other men, more suspicious and aware than other men, not immortal but more weary and weathered and old wolf on the edge of his prime, an alpha with a few years left in him, an odd demeanour for one so young, but then again no one who had been at the Wall for long were young. They'd seen things, things that had aged their minds if not their bodies.

He would be difficult to kill, but in order to take down the toughest prey, you must first flush it from cover. He had succeeded in that at least, the Crow was in flight.

The second Target was less interesting, she was young, full of herself and surrounded by those who told her she was brilliant and 'the future of the Kingdom'. Just another monarch.

He had seen plenty of monarchs before, killed a few as well. She did not interest him as the Crow did, but she presented more of a direct challenge, surrounded by guards, soldiers and bodyguards, she would not be an 'easy' target, but an arrow from a rooftop would kill her all the same.

He had unstrung the bow and held it at his side, but he left the empty quiver behind. The pin dagger was at his side, and his throwing knives were in their sheaves. He disliked swords, they were often too clumsy for his taste, but he had a short one scabbarded at his side all the same.

The snow fell harder as he shadowed across the grounds. Snow that promised Winter.

Winter that promised the end of them all.

 **I was feeling inspired so I decided to write a third chapter. This chapter as the introduction to 'The Man' the assassin after Jon and Dany. As before if you have suggestions, criticisms or questions drop a review and I'll be sure to give it a read.**


	4. Chapter 4

_The Man walked, the road was long and shrouded by snow and ice._

 _By his estimations, the Wall was at least a week away. He'd walked this road before, he'd walked many roads before, but he knew that all roads ended in the same place._

 _The Pin dagger was at his side, a precise elegant weapon. It was less than two feet long, and ended in a sharp needle point._

 _The day had dawned clear and blue, but dark clouds gathering on the Northern horizon promised to change that. The Man walked on. He was tempted to reread the contract once more, to memorize the details and features of his targets._

 _The road was quiet, the lands dangerous. The Man had found travellers gutted in the snow banks and swollen bodies hanging from the trees, whether it was done by soldiers, bandits or militia he knew not. Circling crows could be seen across the skyline, searching for their next meal, their next victim. A dangerous land indeed, but he'd seen more dangerous._

 _The quiver was stocked with feathered arrows and the bow strung. He did not need to feel the knives to know that they were ready and loose in their sheaths._

 _The forest crowded the road on either side, shadowing the paving with their gnarled branches. Their leaves had long since fled. He impassively watched the shadows dance across his path, dance in the morning sun. He knew that, though light may cast shadows, Night brought only darkness. He wondered what would happen when the whole world was covered in darkness._

 _He moved onwards, wrapped in his thoughts, he was aware of his surroundings, and at the same time unable to comprehend things the way other men did, he saw differently to other men he saw both infinitely more and pitifully less._

 _The scream hardly startled him, it was close, and it was female, shrill and full of terror. He walked onward, towards the sound, the branches casting dappled shadows. The small fire the men had built burnt pitifully, hardly generating any smoke and even less heat. Another scream. To the left, in the trees. The two men hardly looked up from the fire._

" _Bloody hell Danek's doing a number on her." The first cloaked figure muttered._

" _It's a pity she was pretty." The second mumbled. The Man walked onwards. Another scream turned into a sob._

" _Oi where do you think you're going mate?" The first said, rising and making a show of grabbing the hilt of his sword._

" _North" The Man said simply._

" _These here are the Kings roads, we collect taxes for the King we do" The second said lifting his rust specked hand axe._

 _The first stepped in front of him, blocking his path his teeth were yellowed and he stank of animal muck._

" _Pay up, or else friend"_

 _The Man merely looked at him, his empty eyes seeing straight through him._

 _Danek had heard Ralph and Potch muttering, probably shaking down some other idiot farmer for all he was worth but he was too engrossed to listen to the conversation, the women had been spirited, he had made sure to break her. She just sobbed quietly now, no more screams or scratching. Just the way he like it. It was life as he saw it. The strong took from the weak, she was pretty besides, or had once been._

" _FUCK.. DAN… Ahhhhh" it came from the road, a scream of shockand fear then pain and agony. Potch's scream. Danek shoved the women away and drew his dagger. Fear began to creep into his mind, had soldiers found them? Or worse some kind of beast, some ravenous wolf." He hung back in the shadows of the trees, his breath coming quickly and shallowly._

" _please, please don't don-" Potch's voice had been a pain filled sob, it was replaced by a deep gurgle and then abruptly stopped. Swallowing heavily, Danek moved slowly to where the trees met the road. Ralph lay face down, the blood pooling around his head while Potch was missing a hand, he lay with a hole in his throat, his eyes staring blankly up at the sky. Danek's grip on the dagger tightened, all thoughts of the women forgotten. The arrow took him in his side._

" _Shit!" he yelled, his eyes on the shaft protruding above his hip._

" _Fuck!" he screamed as a second arrow thunked into the tree, inches above his head. He ran then, his feet carrying him as fast as he had ever moved. The wound in his side not a register on his mind. Through the snow and trees he fled. Blood pumped in his ears and out his side, wetting his jerkin. He didn't care, he had to run, had to get away had to-_

 _The arrow took him in the soft flesh behind his knee, and he crashed down, spraying snow up around him._

" _Ahh!" tears streamed down Daneks face as he staggered to stand, his leg was jelly, his mind was fear .His time with the Women seemed a world away,_

 _Driven by the primal need to survive he shot to his knees and with a supreme effort. He used his other leg to push himself to stand. He was injured but he would not go down without a fight, not without seeing his foe, he was determined to face his enemy standing. He was strong, he had faced soldiers. He would face this bastard. He grabbed the hilt of his sword._

 _And the shaft took him in the back of the head. Crushing through his skull and shredding his brain with metal._

 _The body fell to the snow, the white turning a dark red as Danek's life ran out and stained the ground around him._

 _The Man walked to the corpse and retrieved the arrow from the dead man's side, he left the other two where they were. They would take too much time to free from the man's remains. He turned to return to the road and found a women standing before him, the source of the scream. She was naked. Bruised and bleeding in a number of places, her lip split and her short brown hair covering a scalp matted with blood._

" _You… you saved me" she said, her voice a whisper._

" _No, I helped three men meet their fate, you did not factor into it." The man replied emotionlessly._

" _Please M'Lord I need to get home Birchhill, which way is it?" she asked, her voice shook from fear and shock at her ordeal._

" _I don't know." The Man continued walking, past the women and back to the road._

" _Please My Lord!" She cried after him, barely keeping the tears out of her voice, "Help me, I'll do anything." She sunk to her knees her hands grasped in front of her. Pleading._

 _The Man paused and turned to her slowly._

" _No."_

 **So I'm actually really enjoying writing this story, I do apologise for the graphic content in this chapter, but I thought it was necessary to show in order to give a deeper understanding of The Man. As I've said before, this story is designed to intentionally defy story tropes, because I feel that I've seen the same scenarios and common plot threads too many times. The next chapter will focus on both Jon and Daenerys and how they react in the aftermath of The Mans attack and Jon's flight. As always if you like the story and want to offer criticism, advice or something you'd like to see don't hesitate to drop a review.**


	5. Chapter 5

"Your Grace I hate to interrupt you as you break your fast but uh the Lord Commander has vanished." Ser Barristan said the words as he entered the tent. The melting snowflakes could still be seen on his cloak. The night had brought quite a blizzard and the morning had brought no respite.

Daenerys night had been troubled through the night, her dreams vague and strange. Every time she tried to recall what happened in them they slipped further away into the recess of her mind, until they disappeared completely

Snow's actions the night before had shaken and upset her more then she like to admit. He had been about to jump, she was sure of it, sure he had been about to take the plummet into oblivion, and then he had looked her dead in the face and denied her. She was the rightful heir to the throne, she had birthed living beings of fire, conquered cities and brought an army across the sea, and still he did not believe in her, still he did not think she had a chance to reclaim her birth right and restore her kingdom, it had stung more than she'd like.

The news came as a surprise, but Daenerys forced herself to remain calm and collected. She continued to pick at her food for a few moments before turning to the aging knight.

"He disappeared?" she asked quizzically.

"Not quite your Grace, his apartments were attacked in the night, it appears he fled whoever attacked him."

That did catch her off guard.

"An assassin? Who? One of the Watch?"

Ser Barristan seemed to sigh slightly "It's impossible to know your Grace, but it appears the Lord Commander was injured, if slightly, small amounts of blood were found in his room. The trail lead out into castle then southward, but the snowfall covered the tracks before we could follow them very far." He paused, "I would avoid Castle Black Your Grace"

"To avoid the assassin I suppose." She said, a small note of question in her voice.

Barristan grimaced "Well yes, but the real reason is that many of the Crows suspect you for trying to kill their Lord Commander, revenge for your father they believe."

He let the words hang in the air, an unspoken question, a question he dare not directly ask.

"I did not order Jon Snow's assassination" she said firmly, rising from her food. 'I saved his bloody life last night' she growled in her mind. Problems and more problems.

"If anything I want him found, he's a valuable tool and I don't want to lose him to the enemy."

Barristan considered her words but then continued gravely, "Avoid the castle all the same Your Grace, the Brothers are nervous, winter is claiming these lands and they know what accompanies this unnatural cold. I fear your presence could just… inflame them, perhaps convince them to do something rash."

Defiance rose in her, she would show those Crows that she was their rightful Queen and she did not fear them, she feared nothing. 'Except Jon Snow' a small soft voice whispered to her 'You fear he speaks the truth'. She willed the voice to silence, she could not dwell on momentary fancies now, she could not dwell on the despair she had felt the hopelessne- no she denied the thought.

"One more thing Your Grace, the words haven't been said but whispers of 'deserter' shadow the topic of Jon Snow, the Nights Watch could soon have a new Lord Commander… we should tread carefully."

"Be that as it may Ser Barristan, I still want you to assemble a party of our fastest hunters and scouts to track him down, I want him found" she could tell herself it was to secure the North, she could tell herself it was because she wanted him as a political piece, but the true answer was less understandable, more irrational. If she could convince Jon Snow that she could restore and preserve Westeros, then she could convince anyone.

All it would take then was convincing the common folk that she, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of chains could rule, would rule and once she did that, well then the Iron Throne would be hers.

Jon's eyes shot open. He took a moment to orientate himself, to gather his bearings. He was in a canvased room, no not a room, a wagon. Gingerly he sat up and gazed through the gap in the canvas at the end of the wagon. The Wall was more distant now, but no less impressive. A behemoth of ice and stone, a solid curtain that stretched to either end of the horizon. A glorious monument to the building prowess under an impassive slate grey sky, a sky that promised more snow, more cold.

The Wagon bed was more or less empty, all stock had been sold off to the Army camped in the shadows of the Wall, a few sacks crowded a corner but nothing more. A twinge of pain in his foot brought back of the memory panicked flight from Castle Black crashing down onto him, he needed to treat the wound, treat it before it festered. It took Jon a few moments to realize that the Wagon wasn't moving, most likely the driver and guard needed a few moments rest. It suited him.

Using his knife, he cut several strips from his cloak and fashioned a crude cloth from rags that had been left in the Wagon. Bracing himself for the pain that was to follow, he gripped the shaft about an inch or two above his foot and snapped it off. The action sent a bolt of pain through him, but he merely grunted. He looked at the broad head lodged in his boot, now came the painful part. Putting the cloth between his teeth, he slowly began to ease the arrow from his lacerated flesh. He bit down hard. Blood began to spill from the wound and pool in his boot. He continued. Slicing through the scab that had begun to form, he slowly withdrew the arrow head until it suddenly came free. His mouth tasted coppery, he had bit his tongue despite the cloth. His hands shook as he eased the wounded foot out of the boot all the while blood continued to spill from the gash. He took the cloth from his mouth and, along with a handful of clean snow, placed it on the wound, he then tied it tight. He could still flex his toes, despite all the pain that it brought. Then again, pain told you that you were alive, it was numbness that he feared. Numbness and nothing.

The next time he awoke it was dusk, the clouds were darker and less defined, The Wall was further away. Staggering out of the wagon took effort, but the smell of a cook fire and the rumbling of his stomach drove him.

The wound felt better, but it was definitely not healed. He limped to fire and dropped down opposite the two other men. They grew silent as he approached. They probably didn't know what to make of him, quite frankly neither did he. He was a man on the run from what? He did not know. Why was he running? That he also did not know. And who was he running from?

They offered him a small bowl of broth and he took it, eating in silence with only the occasional comment or observation. The sword at Jon's hip didn't encourage questions and his face didn't show any answers, and so the days went on.

They trundled slowly South, the Wall growing smaller and more distant, until is vanished entirely. Jon spent the days contemplating his question and his nights running from something he couldn't see in his dreams. For three days and nights that was how it went. Each night he soaked the wound in boiling water and changed the dressing. The snow continued, turning the landscape into an endless white wasteland as far as the eye could see, but for three days they trundled on.

On the fourth day he saw her. She was beautiful, her raven black hair ran almost to her waste, her high cheek bones, slender figure and lovely face gave her appearance of a goddess, carved from marble by the finest sculpture. Her pale, creamy skin made her look like a creature of myth, untouched by the sun and unblemished. Even though her eyes were closed, Jon new they were the deepest shade of green. She was the most elegant creature Jon had seen, exquisite, divine and she at least a day or two dead.

The pools of dried black blood around her wrists gave it away. She lay against a tree on the side of the road as if sleeping, but those eyes would never open again. They drove on past her with hardly a second glance, bodies were all too common in the North these days.

That night Jon didn't sleep. She lay heavily on his mind, her perfect lips, her timeless face, her hands that were going cold and stiff as the blood stopped pumping in her veins. She was dead and the world didn't care. He didn't understand why the Seven themselves did not carry her body to her resting place, why scores of mourners did not come to weep over her death, the death of such beauty, such purity. Why the sun did not hide its face for fear of burning her smooth pale skin.

He wondered how she died, suicide, murder, a tragic accident, a crime of passion he pondered, but more than that he wondered why? Why the world could be so cruel as to take her light, her life from existence. Who was she? Who had she been? A farmer's girl out on errands? A lord's daughter who had taken her own life? It didn't matter he supposed, soon her beauty would fade entirely from the world .Soon the worms would dine on her willowy figure, on her perfect unmarked flesh.

He asked the aloud to the Night

"Ygritte, what has become of this place?"

 **So the story continues. Remember to drop a review or comment if you have any thoughts.**


	6. Chapter 6

They investigated the room the next day, The Man watched as black brothers combed through the Lord Commanders office, searching for any sign, any clue of where he might have fled, any clue as to who had attacked him. The Man knew he had gone south, but he would be wounded and moving slowly, he had other things to attend to before chasing him down. No one questioned him as he shadowed through the castle, his black attire making him appear like a Crow from far and just another new stranger in the castle up close. It suited him, he could go about his task more easily.

A screech sounded over the Castle as a dragon flew overhead. It flapped its leathery wings with careless ease as it ranged east along the Wall. The Man took a moment to glance at it, they did not impress him. They were just another obstacle, another logistical challenge he needed to overcome in order to get to the Queen.

A brother approached him. The Man noted the hard cut of his features, the hard look in his eyes. A hard man for a hard life.

"How's the morning treating you friend" he asked. The Man heard no threat or motive in his voice, the brother was just a man looking the monotony by talking to someone new.

"Well enough" The Man replied.

The Mans curt reply seemed to off-balance the brother somewhat, but he quickly recovered.

"Care for a cup of something warm, the pots already on the fire" he gestured to the small cookfire behind him, where three other Brothers sat stiffly trying to warm themselves, trying to melt the ice in their veins.

The Man considered briefly, "Thank you" The Man continued to stand there, unmoving.

The brother looked confused, "So… uh just sit where ever". The Man walked to the fire and sat down on a tumbled piece of masonry, it had once belonged to the surrounding towers, but they were ruined now.

The brothers seated at the fire looked at him curiously and quizzically. They all wore the hardships of their life on their faces, they were barely past their thirties, but the light in their eyes was old and weathered.

The Crow who had invited him to the fire sat down a pace or two from The Man, his joints creaked as he eased himself onto the hard snowy ground. He held out a hand to The Man.

"Names Yonter, Yonter Grif and these fellows are Erik, Daron and Kark" the brothers held up a hand of greeting at the sound of their names.

"Good to meet you" The Man said slowly.

One of the brothers, Kark spoke, "Your accent, I haven't heard it before, where are you from."

"A long way from here" the bluntness of the reply caused a few chuckles.

"So I take it you are with the 'Queen' then?" he couldn't keep a note of mocking from entering his tone.

"I follow her, yes"

"What do you make of her and all this Mysa and 'Breaker of chains' nonse… talk" Daron asked carefully, he knew the almost fanaticism many of her follower possessed for the Queen, his voice was weary and tired but still sharp.

"She is young and arrogant, she sees the world how she'd like it to be, instead of how it is"

The Man had distantly shadowed her for some time, listening to how she spoke, as if she was some sort of messiah, a light to burn away their darkness. A saviour from all their troubles.

He would not feel much putting her down, not that he felt much at all.

Daron guffawed, "You don't sound like you have the highest opinion of her."

"I don't" he said simply.

Yonter poured five mugs of steaming hot liquid and held one out to The Man, he took it with a nod of thanks. The Man sipped on the warm liquid, letting it warm the chill from his body. The brothers took their morning drink in silence. The Man did not mind.

"You hear that they attacked the Lord Commander, last night?" Daron asked him, disgust in his voice.

The Man looked up from his mug before nodding slightly.

"I would put money on the fact that it was her" he jerked a thumb in the direction of the Queens camp, Daron's eyes widened, perhaps realizing he had said too much, but The Man gave no show of offence.

"You know these bloody nobles Daron" it was Erik who spoke, disdain all too evident in his tone, "they always looking to settle a score or get ahead in their bloody Game of Thrones, don't know why they constantly drag us into it." he spat in the dirt, then shook his head.

The Man stood, the brothers looked surprised, they worried they had offended him with their talk of the Queen.

He pressed the mug back into Yonter's hand. "Thank you for the drink, it was most welcome" he said in his accented drawl.

"You're welcome friend" The Man began to walk away, "I didn't catch your name?" Yonter asked after him.

"Perhaps next time" The man disappeared around a ruined corner and was gone.

Daenerys paced around the apartments that had once belonged to the Lord Commander, they were destroyed. Shattered glass and arrows gave littered the room, a cold breeze gusted through the smashed windows, bringing cold and snow with it.

Her guards stood in around the room, eight in total. Each carried a razor sharp spear each ready for an attack they would die to protect their Queen from. Walking to one of the shattered panes, she gazed out of it. The shadows and ruins of the castle provided too many hiding places for an archer, the attack could have come from anywhere.

"Who has assumed command in Lord Snow's absence?" She asked Selmy.

"That would be Allister Thorne, one of Snows greatest rivals I believe."

"Take me too him." She said, "I would speak with him regarding this matter."

"As you wish your Grace" Selmy said, bowing his head and signalling the guards that they were on the move. The spearmen formed a line on either side of her, they would kill any threat to their Queen. Snow covered them as they crossed the courtyard, the blizzard had calmed but not subsided, white flakes rained down around them. Daenerys considered how to meet with Thorne, how to convince him that she could retrieve-

Daenerys felt eyes upon her. A gaze that fell on her, a gaze that saw through her skin. A gaze that saw into her soul, a gaze that held no hatred, nor anger nor lust, just indifference… then it passed, the gaze retreated into the shadows.

She shivered, not from the cold. Someone had been watching her.

"Ser Barristan, I think I'd like to return to my tent." Her voice told him all he needed to know. She had seen something, felt something wrong. Barristan signalled the guards, and they quickly turned and began heading back to the camp. The gaze didn't fall on her again but every shadow seemed to glare at her. In her mind every shadow hid the assailant. She did not breathe easily until they entered the outskirts of the camp, and were greeted with the overwhelming presence of humanity. Cook fires burned, soldiers sharpened weapons and camp followers hung out washing. She stopped to greet many, she had long ago learned that a friendly word of encouragement here and there brought her infinitely more respect than a thousand speeches could.

The gaze troubled her though, it had felt inhuman. Was it some creature of the Others, some dark force that had sent over the Wall? She scolded herself, she was being paranoid.

'It's this place' she told herself

'Living in this endless snow, in the shadow of the Wall, nothing but uncharted wasteland beyond it, it's enough to make anyone feel off'

Surrounded by her camp she felt safer, she was amongst her followers, they loved her, how could they not? She had freed them from an eternity as property, as items treated less than human. She would see they prospered once she took the throne, they would-

Ser Jorah approached her, his face was pure fear. Not worry or concern, fear.

"Your Grace, your tent…the guard there were… murdered."

Her pulse quickened. The gaze had been real.

"Your Grace" Ser Barristan cautioned, "We should avoid the tent, the assassin could still be near, it is not wis-"

"I need to see what happened" She turned to the Knight righteous anger ringing in her voice, "In order to catch this killer we need to understand how they work, what they think. I will not run and become hunted, I will hunt them instead, and in order to do that I need to see what happened."

Ser Barristan's face was grave but he conceded nonetheless, "Very well, Your Grace."

They marched to the tent in silence. Daenerys considered what she would find there. Visions of Half devoured, mutilated corpses were her best guess. That gaze had been too inhuman, it must have belonged to some sort of horrifying creature, a creature that would desecrate the bodies, leave them unrecognizable. What she found was infinitely more disturbing.

Upon entering the tent she was greeted with the motionless forms of the two guards that were always posted outside, but they had not been desecrated or violate. They bore no marks of prolonged struggle, no bleeding gashes or long sword cuts, instead the first had a small hole in his temple, and the second a tiny mark on his chest, a mark in the position of the heart. Their wounds had killed them before they even hit the floor. A small cut in the back of the tent, alerted her to how the assailant had entered, they had slipped silently into her space, like a ghost.

Then something strange caught her eye, the plate she had broken her fast on was now empty. That made no sense, she had not finished the food and a servant would not have taken the food and left th-

It struck her, the assassin had eaten it. They had slipped into the tent, killed two men, then had sat, on her chair, and had calmly ate her breakfast. Her mind spun, it made no sense.

How could the assassin just kill two men then sit and eat the remains of a meal. Despite the barely marked corpses, Daenerys felt a sense of violation she had never felt before. The assassin had penetrated into this tent, her tent and eaten her breakfast. She felt like being sick, she couldn't comprehend it, it could not be understood. What kind of creature could calmly eat in the very same room they had just killed two people in? There was nothing savage or primal in the murders, the killer had not taken their time or looked to cause any pain.

The killer had just murdered them, and felt so little at taking life, extinguishing existence, that they had just finished some left over food, because it was just lying around.

She needed air. Daenerys turned and try not to flee the tent. She shakily gulped lungful's of cold air. She could not explain it, the terror was irrational, but it was terror nonetheless. Her hands were shaking. She could not stay here any longer, she needed to get away, away from those precise, emotionless kills. Like the gaze there had been no anger, rage or even satisfaction. They had just… happened. The only question was when? While she was searching Jon's room, while she had been in the camp, minutes after she had left the tent?

Ser Barristan emerged from the tent, she had never seen him look so disturbed. Daenerys didn't know if others would see what she had seen in there, but he had.

"Your Grace, you are no longer safe here" It was an admission, an admission that he could not protect her from the force that had committed those acts.

She gazed out over the camp, over the sea of humanity where something decidedly inhuman might lurk.

"I need to go after Jon Snow, I need to tell him what's after us, I'm convinced it is the same attacker."

"Are you sure that's wis-"

She cut him off," I don't care if it's wise, I can't stay here, not with that 'thing' here."

Barristan understood even if he did not like it.

"Send orders to Grey Worm, that in three weeks he is to move the army south, with any luck I'll have returned by then. If not we'll meet up on the road South."

Ser Barristan spoke calmly and carefully, "Your Grace if this assassin follows you, you cannot face it alone, I will accompany you as your sworn shield… and lay down my life to preserve yours if need be."

Daenerys nodded slowly, she would ride south today. She had to warn Jon Snow. Had to warn him about what was following them, targeting them. The clouds were growing lighter, but still the snow fell, endlessly it fell.

In a distant corner of the camp, a lone horse and rider struck South, unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of the camp. The Man checked that the Pin Dagger was secure at his side.

He rode South, his bones still warmed by the drink, his body energised by the food.

He had long days of hunting ahead of him.

 **So this was a fun chapter to write as it sorts of sets in motion the plot to follow. I've had a couple reviews and they've given me a lot to think about regarding this story. It's really appreciated and constructive criticism helps me grow as a writer and as a story teller in general. I've made some changes to the bio as I don't want people to feel too misled by the story. I've also made some changes to the author's notes in earlier chapters but all in all I'm really enjoying writing this and as always please drop a review if you have any thoughts.**


	7. Chapter 7

"How much?"

The innkeeper looked up startled, he had not heard the stranger approach him. From his point of view in the corner of the common room, he had noticed the strange man slip into the inn. His attention had been too focussed on the muted conversation in the common room to realize the strange figure now stood in front of him. He noticed the figure wore a long cloak, however it did not fully hide the bow he had slung on his back, or the strange dagger at his hip. It did not really concern him, most people carried weapons these days, the roads were dangerous and 'Warden' Ramsay did little to protect those in his realm, usually he harmed them instead. Still the stranger was disconcerting, but as long as he had money to pay, the innkeeper didn't care how unsettling his eyes were. But an Inn was preferable to traveling at night and night was quickly falling outside,

"You can have a bed for three silvers a night." The innkeeper replied disinterestedly, not many travelled in Winter and he had no wish to raise his prices to the point where customers were discouraged from taking a room, still the room was a steal at that price, it was worth five silvers at least.

Instead of producing the money from his pockets, the stranger continued to look at him in a very strange way, the innkeeper began to feel uncomfortable under that dark gaze.

"I was not asking how much for a room."

"If you aren't going to get a room, could I interest you in some ale, or perhaps a meal?" The innkeeper asked, he wanted to steer the strange man away from him.

The Man looked down at the potbellied, balding man and asked in his strange accent

"You keep trying to sell me things, all you care about is money?"

Putting on a show of indignation, despite his growing unease, the Innkeeper drew himself up.

"I have a business to run Sir and a family to feed, so yes… I do care about money."

"Who's your family?" The Man asked, cocking his head to one side.

The Innkeeper swallowed and was suddenly glad of the few patrons in the common room. There was something… unnatural about the way the stranger asked the question.

"Well my wife, and my two girls…, my sons moved out long ago, and uh my wife's mother who uh lives with us." He tried to keep his voice from quivering. Who was this man?

The Man looked around the establishment, it was kept in good order, mostly clean and tidy

"And, this is how you provide for them?" there was no challenge in his voice, just questioning.

The Innkeeper swallowed again and then began to nod. "Uh… Yes, yes this is how I provide for them."

The Man looked at him coldly.

"Then you are not motivated by money, you are motivated by your family and providing a better life for them" The Man pause and let the words hang in the air "don't forget that."

The Man widened his eyes at the Innkeeper to drive the point home. The Innkeeper knew that there would be terrible consequences if he ever forgot what this strange figure had just told him.

The Man took three silver coins from his pocket and then pressed them into the Innkeepers hand, he could feel it was slick with sweat. The Man then took the contract from his other pocket and held it up for the Innkeeper to read.

"Have you seen someone matching this description?" he asked simply, the intensity of the past few moments gone from his words.

The Innkeeper shook his head as if waking up from a bad dream, he read the description, moistened his lips and spoke once he was sure his voice wouldn't quiver.

"I don't know for sure… but someone with dark hair and eyes, and a face somewhat like that did pass through here a couple days ago. I only saw him at a distance though so I don't know."

"How many days ago"

"Um.. uh thre-, no two. Two days ago he did pass through here."

"What did he do here?"

"Sorry? Wh-"

"What… did… he do here?" The Man said slower and with infinitely more menace.

"Stopped to buy fff… food I think, he was with a merchant. They were going South… in a wagon, I think he had a slight limp, as if he was injured."

"Thank you" The Man said simply and turned to leave. The Innkeeper should have let him, he should forgotten all about the stranger and his strange question. Instead he asked after him.

"Sir, you paid, don't you want a room?" He snapped his mouth shut as soon as the question left it, what a fool he was. The man would kill him now, he was sure of it. Kill him for questioning. He tried to keep from bolting from the room. Still the patrons continued their muted mutters, oblivious to the stranger's presence.

Looking over his shoulder The Man replied as if it was the most obvious matter in the world

"You gave me what I paid for."

The Man opened the door, and vanished into the deepening twilight.

Soon the patrons of the common room all forgot about the cloaked man who had spent less than five minutes in the Inn, before disappearing into the darkness from which he had come. All except the Innkeeper, he breathed heavily once the stranger left, taking breaths he did not realize he had been holding.

That night he hugged his family fiercely before they went to bed, even his mother in law. He decided to write his sons a letter the next day, and began thinking on how to fix the leaking ceiling and perhaps add an extra room to the dwelling.

The Man had given him more than three silvers, he had given him a lesson that the Innkeeper swore he would never ever forget.

 **I decided to do a short chapter, showing how The Man interacts with average people and how they are changed by the experience. So what do you guys and girls think about the story and let me know if you have any ideas or hopes for things you'd like to see in the future.**


	8. Chapter 8

Jon smelt the skirmish before he saw it, the smell of sickly sweet corruption. The smell of the dead slowly returning to the Earth. The crows had given it away, their oily black shapes a stain upon the sky. It seemed strange to Jon that such a beautiful day, a day free of snow and sleet, a day of brilliant blue would look down upon such a pitiful mess. It had been three days since he had seen the girl, the beautiful dead girl who plagued his dreams.

By his estimates they were another week and a half away from Winterfell. He did not know why he was going to Winterfell, but it seemed his destination, he had no reason to go further South and no desire to stop anywhere North of the castle. The journey had been mostly silent, it suited Jon, gave him time to reflect. Besides there were worse traveling companions than Coins and Gruff as he had named them in his head.

"Seven Hells!" Coins exclaimed loudly, hurriedly bringing his pocket hanky up to cover his nose and mouth "what is that smell?!"

"The Dead" Gruff told him "they start to go all rotten after a couple of days, stinks like hell."

"I know what happens when people die!" Coins replied in a nasal tone that told Jon he felt offended at being told the obvious. Coins wasn't a bad man, but he was ignorant about certain things, and he was defensive of his ignorance.

Coins and Gruff rode up front, while Jon typically sat in the Wagon bed, he poked his head through the front opening.

"Is it wise to travel so close to… whatever happened up ahead?" He asked Gruff.

"Once they start smelling, the battles long over, besides if there was men up ahead, they'd have cleaned up the bodies by now" He flared his nostrils ,"smells like quite a lot of bodies."

It was a lot of bodies, about twenty in all. Some wore Bolton colours and others plain Jerkins, woollen shirts and boiled leathers. Some were tall, others short, some were fair haired some were dark haired. Some carried swords, others bows, spear and axes, but they all had one thing in common now.

From what Jon gathered from the scene, the 'Jerkins' had constructed and manned, a two meter high, wooden barricade and the Bolton's had come to break through the barricade and clear the road.

He was sure the issue was of importance to someone, somewhere. There had probably been a number of speeches and heroic war cries. Impassioned debates and grand resolutions but none of that mattered now. The battle was over and the number of corpses gave no indication of who had 'won'.

The barricade still stood, burnt and hacked to pieces as it was in a number of places, but if the 'Jerkins' had won, why did they not still man it? Why did they not bury their dead? By the same token, why did the Bolton's not finish the job if they had slain all their enemies? Why did twelve of them lie where they had fallen, arrows in their chests and blood caking their armour?

The crows fluttered from their feast as the Wagon approached.

"Fucking hell" Gruff exclaimed dismally as they surveyed the carnage.

The remark summed up Jon's feelings as well. At this rate the Others wouldn't need to invade, people were wiping themselves out. Twenty one men dead and for? A road?

'We have to change' Jon thought sadly 'we have to change while there's still time'.

"How can men be so stupid?" Coins asked no one in particular, "Do they have so little to live for that they throw their life away and over what?" he gestured around "Over a road hardly anyone uses?" he sounded confused and sad at the same time. Coins was not a soldier, he was not a man of battle. He didn't know why men would die for something so seemingly trivial. He couldn't understand the horror around him. Jon wondered if he still could.

A King or official somewhere would no doubt justify the matter. An accountant would stop making entries for the dead men to receive their wages. A widow would comfort herself with the words 'He died honourably with his comrades' but Jon could see no honour in this, no honour in lying face down in the muck as the crows ate away at your remains and only the worms watched as you returned to the soil.

They sat there in silence for a moment. Under the brilliant winter morning sun, and crystal clear blue sky, the three silent figures on the wagon were the only ones offering any respect to such a waste of life. Such a waste of potential. Crafters, husbands, fathers, blacksmiths and hunters all gone.

Then the moment ended.

With a short sigh Coins said "We need to clear the blockage so that we can pass" he looked at Gruff "and by we, I mean you." Gruff opened his mouth, seemingly to object, but Jon stepped in.

"I'll help, it'll go faster with two of us and I have no desire to hang around this place" Gruff nodded appreciatively.

They worked throughout the day, hacking down the wooden wall nine 'Jerkin's' had died defending, pausing only to shoo the crows or have a sip of water. It was hard labour, but Jon threw himself into it. He lost himself in the 'thunk' of his axe into wood and ripping the nails that had held the beams of the wall together. He retreated into himself, blotting out the bodies. He knew that if he looked at them he would only see the girl, the beautiful girl lying there in the snow as the crows made a meal of her delicate flesh. Tears began to well in his eyes, but he did not know why, they joined the sweat streaming down his face. Every axe blow was harder than the last. Faster and faster he chopped at the beams until finally he realised that Gruff was staring at him in astonishment.

"I'm sorry" he choked, his voice heavy and his eyes bloodshot from crying. Gruff gave a slight shake of his head, it was then that Jon realized that Gruff was not staring at him, but past him, towards the Western horizon, towards the sunset. He turned and was greeted with magnificence.

The sun was a shimmering ball of soft orange-red fire, blazing its last of the day upon a world growing greyer and greyer at the onset of twilight. Casting an impossible blend of colours upon the small party that stood amongst the corpses of the forgotten.

An artist, no a god, had painted the sky around it. Texturing the heavens with reds brighter than the ripest apple, light yellows that melted into each other gloriously and rolling oranges that covered the horizon with brilliance. It was the most perfect painting he had ever seen, a mixture of hues and shades that no human could accomplish and in the centre of the masterpiece sat the sun.

It was a bastion of burning brilliance, a fire glowing amongst the coals, a scream of glory against the coming night.

A final cry of defiance at the dying of the light.

 **This was a tough chapter, but I found it interesting contrasting the imagery of death and violence (that peppers this story) with images of natural beauty. The passage about the sunset is probably my favourite part of the story so far as it shows that even amongst the horror that fills both our world, and the world of our characters there is still beauty and magnificence around every corner, we just have to stop a moment and notice it.**


	9. Chapter 9

It was the hour of the wolf when The Man found the bodies, the world was dark and silent and despite the new moon, the stars blazed fiercely above. The Man saw the battle, the men there had made their decisions, and they had met their fate accordingly, he did not even have to help them along the road to destiny.

He walked through the killing field, never pausing to glance at the decaying corpses, he was closing in on his target. The remains of a barricade told him that Snow had spent at least half a day clearing the road. The wagon tracks in the occasional patches of mud told him he was moving in the right direction. He would find him, soon.

The Man ran his hands across his feathered arrows, his touch told him that he had twelve left. He nodded in the dark, that number was acceptable. He briefly checked the tension in his bow before walking past the battle and leaving the crows to their meals.

Jon's dreams were troubled. They spun and whirled, disorientating and confusing. A distant battle on the horizon, The Wall burning, villages of men and women who, despite being dead, still went about their daily business. They were dead, but they did not know it yet. He wanted to tell them to run, to flee south while they still could, to flee what approached from the North.

He saw the Night's King as he had been described in legend. Tall with piercing blue eyes, ice white skin and a terribly cold gaze that could freeze a man's blood in his veins. He stood in front of a throne of frozen bones, the legions of the dead around him. Despite the fear, the pure abstract terror that pooled in his stomach at confronting a force so malevolent and evil, the creature would take pleasure in his death, enjoy feeding on his blood.

Jon drew his sword, determined to slay the creature at any cost. Determined to strike it down he swung… and watched confused as the Night King melted into shadows, shadows that took the figure of a man. A man holding a bow. The shadow turned its head and looked at him, with eyes that felt nothing. The legions of the dead and throne of bones melted away as well, Jon stood in an empty field and looked down at the arrow sprouting from his stomach. The shadows walked away as he fell to the ground. Jons head hit the hard rocky snow. For an eternity he dwelled in the realm beyond dreams, a realm of such vast darkness and infinity, no living human could comprehend its existence.

When the dreams found once more, they were different.

He was on a village common ground, the grass was green and the sun shone warmly. It was summer. He looked around as children played in the field and darted after each other into the small alleys between houses. A women hummed to herself as she strung up laundry and man wiped his brow as he hammered up a new sign. There was only a sense of peace, no violence, no bloodshed, no destruction. A shadow fell over him, but it was comforting, he knew this shadow, in some way he'd always known her.

"Jon what are you doing on the ground?" she asked, her voice melodic without effort. He looked up at her and then stood.

Why was he on the ground? He had an impression of something terrible, he shook his head to dispel it, he could not remember what it had been, but it was gone now, just a daydream moment he supposed. It was Ygritte's fiery red curls and that greet him, but in an instant it change to a women with jet black hair and eyes the most brilliant shade of green he had ever seen, her face changed back again. Jon was not afraid or uncertain, in fact he did not even notice it, here it made sense that her face would change from one shade of perfection to the next.

"I don't know" he said uncertainly.

"Well go on then there's things that need to be done" her voice held irritation but also something else, something he had not heard in a long time. 'What am I going on about?' Jon asked himself. I hear my wife's voice every day, how could he not have heard the love she held for him, the love they held for each other. It must be the sun, the summer sun could make a man do strange things and this summer had been a slew of perfect days of sunshine one after the other, it made sense too much time out soaking up the warmth must have given him this momentary confusion.

"Yes, sorry love I… must have gotten lost for a second"

She narrowed her eyes quizzically before leaning in and giving him a soft kiss, it was better than anything he had ever tasted.

"Okay" she replied "Just try to … remember next time" her expression told him that even though she would never understand his funny ways, she would always love him for it. She turned to leave, but Jon wrapped his arms around her, holding her close and tight. Hugging her for all he was worth, he did not know why.

"Jon!" She was startled but she clearly enjoyed the contact no matter how abruptly it had come "What has gotten into you today?"

"I don't know" he mumbled "I just felt like I need to hold you"

"Well I'm not complaining, but there are things to do, we can't just spend the whole day here… but maybe tonight we could…" He liked that idea, he liked it very much.

She disentangled herself from him and turned to face him, her face changed. She had the deepest purple eyes and hair of silver blonde that tumbled down her back. She looked at him sadly.

"All dreams must end my love"

Jon's eyes shot open. His heart felt a loss the likes of which he had never known, a tearing at his soul that was almost too much to bare. Strange considering he had lost something he had never truly had.

The dream did not disappear into his mind, but as he sat up and watched the long, dark room stretching infinitely behind them, the sounds of that perfect village faded and reality rushed in to takes its place.

 **I thought I'd end off today with a more light hearted chapter. I have exams coming up, so I'll be busy, but hopefully I'll still get a chance to update, either tomorrow or the next day. Any and all support, reviews and suggestions are much appreciated.**


	10. Chapter 10

They were thirty- four in total. Twenty Unsullied, twelve Dothraki hunters, Ser Barristan and the Queen herself. A party big enough to remain untroubled by bandits, but small enough to move quickly. Drogon travelled with them, if irregularly. His terrifying shadow darkened the same road as the riders, but the dragon slept alone. He never rested at their camp but he was never far away either.

The riders sped south, eating the miles away with their constant pace. Daenerys felt only dread for what lay ahead, for who lay ahead. On their third day they had found a body lying in the road, a neat hole in the back of his head where something short and sharp had been pushed up into his brain. They stopped to bury the poor fellow. Daenerys wondered who he had been and what he had done before the assassin had killed him but more importantly she wondered why the assassin had killed the man. She tried to guess what the poor man had done to deserve such a short sharp end. Had he just been unlucky? Had he spoken to the assassin? Did he even realise that he was walking down the road for the last time? That these uneven paving stones and mud pools would be the last thing he ever saw?

The assassin plagued her mind as they moved ever south. 'The assassin must be from a foreign land, a very far away foreign land." She told herself. She did not know if it was reassuring or not.

In her time, she had met sadists and sorcerers, mercenaries and thieves, people both good and bad, but she doubted whether she had ever met anyone like the dark figure she now pursued. She told herself that the assassin was some dark creature created by the Others or blood magic or black sorcery. She did not know why but, terrifying as the thoughts of undead, unstoppable, primal killing machines were, they were understandable. Picturing the assassin as a tall, snow skinned, red eyed abomination was easier than imagining it as just another man. It was easier to see it as inhuman and disgusting than to picture such a force of strange death and disturbing horror as just another man. A man just like one who might pass you in the city streets.

It was only when they passed through the sleepy village of Grey River that Daenerys got her first information of the assassin.

She was contemplating matters in her tent when Barristan Selmy entered.

"Your Grace I have an Innkeeper with me, he says there was a strange man in the village a few days ago, asking after someone matching Jon Snows description."

Daenerys instantly knew who the 'strange man' was, it was the same formless, faceless figure who darkened her dreams each night.

"Bring him in" She commanded. She stopped just short of licking her lips in anticipation. Would the assassin be horribly deformed or marked with strange and ancient skin ink? She had to know, she would know.

The Innkeeper was short, round and balding. He had a nervous almost cornered look in his eye. Daenerys knew that look, it was the same one she had worn after finding the bodies in her tent.

"Sit" she gestured to the chair opposite her. The Innkeeper swallowed noticeably before sitting down.

"I'm told that you met a man asking after someone"

"Yes… uh your ladyship"

Daenerys leaned forward. She had to know, "What did he look like?"

The Innkeeper moistened his lips.

"I… I couldn't tell you" his voice was bewildered yet scared at the same time.

"What do you mean you can't tell me?" she asked forcefully. If this man was playing the fool…

His voice shook and quivered "You have to believe, I can't remember his face. I just remember those eyes… they… they saw right through me" he was on the brink of tears "He… he asked me about your man, gave me three silvers then… then he just vanished." She could hear that he was on the brink of babbling but then he raised his bowed head and looked her in the eye.

"I've seen soldiers, Bolton men. Terrible people, people who enjoy hurting. Enjoy inflicting pain. I've met bandits who are worse, godless men… men who don't care what judgement awaits them after life, men who'll rape and steal because they can. I even met a red priest once. I knew that they'd burn their own mother to appease their god, they'd slaughter a nation with fervour if the flames asked them to."

His voice grew softer and he took a deep breath.

"But in all my years and all the terrible folk I've seen, I ain't never seen something like him." He paused. Daenerys gestured for him to go on.

"I knew that… he could kill me, and he wouldn't even feel anything about it. Not satisfaction or pleasure or bloodlust, he just would kill me… and move on, it wouldn't even be anything to him. Your ladyship if 'He' is after your man, then your man is in huge trouble.

"human life doesn't mean anything to him." His voice was barely more than a whisper now.

"Did he have any markings? Any distinguishing features? Anything to set him apart from other men?" She asked hurriedly.

The Innkeeper looked at her with eyes that still could not understand what they had seen.

"I don't remember anything but that stare, that dark stare that saw straight into my soul." He shook his head "No matter how human the rest of him is… that look in his eyes is anything but."

 _No matter how beautiful the sunset had been, Daenerys could not take her mind off what the Innkeeper had told her, even if it had been days ago. She had talked with Ser Barristan late into the night._

" _Could he be a faceless man?" She asked "they're infamous for having a less than human demeanour."_

" _He could be" Ser Barristan concurred "But, the faceless take an almost religious reverence when taking a life, from what I've heard of this man, it sounds Your Grace, that it just makes no difference to him whether a life ends because of his actions. He treats it as we might treat stepping on an insect or washing our hands. Something ordinary, hardly worth remarking on."_

" _Ser Barristan, it may sound like a flight of fancy… but could he be some sort of creature from North of the Wall? Some sort of assassin for the White Walkers?" She asked tentatively. Out loud it sounded ridiculous, but instead of laughing, Ser Barristan merely stroked his chin thoughtfully._

" _He could, but the man could be an agent of the Mermen or a Necromancer from the borders of the Shadow for all we know. From what I can tell he might be a ghost"_

 _Ser Barristan widened his eyes at how ludicrous it sounded coming from his own mouth "slipping in and out unnoticed, appearing and disappearing at will" He shrugged his shoulders in defeat._

" _All we know Your Grace is that he is very, very dangerous. We need to find Jon Snow before he does."_

They were gaining on Jon that much she knew. He was traveling by wagon, which meant he was moving slowly. They broke camp at dawn and rode hard throughout the day, the stark, snow covered Northern countryside moving past them at lightning pace. Daenerys could tell that the days were growing shorter and the nights longer and longer, but even without the lengthening darkness, everywhere she looked, winter encroached on the land. Ponds fully frozen, the paving becoming slicker as ice froze in the cracks between the stones. She often found herself glancing North. Glancing towards where an undermanned Wall was only defence between them and the lifeless, icy winds.

Drogon's monstrous shadow swept over the lands as they rode through the day, but she wondered if even he was enough to stop the cold. Damn Snow, damn him for filling her with doubt. Once she found him she would convince him, she would make him believe in her. Make him believe that hope was not dead.

"Your Grace, at this rate we should catch up to him by tomorrow" Ser Barristan said as he entered her tent. "There's a town up ahead, Pinecrest. With luck we will find them there tomorrow night."

Daenerys thoughts were troubled though. A shadow haunted her dreams .In her dream Jon Snow had smiled at her even as an arrow went into his back, then another, then another.

"Any word of the assassin?"

Ser Barristan frowned "No, Your Grace."

A gust of wind buffeted the tent frame and the fire sputtered in its brazier.

"Keep warm Your Grace, it'll not be a pleasant night." He cautioned her.

She raised her eyebrows "They never are anymore."

Something was wrong, the old knight was worried, it sat heavy upon his brow and aged his already aged face.

"Ser Barristan, what occupies your thoughts?"

He sighed "It's the cold Your Grace, I've felt many winters, but never a cold like this." He paused "This winter will be different." he shook his head

"It is also this man that troubles me" Daenerys knew he was not talking about Jon Snow "but enough of him, I wish you pleasant dreams Your Grace." Then he departed.

The wind howled throughout the night, and the next day. Frigid, icy wind that threatened more snow, more storms. The party moved swiftly. Daenerys knew he was close, in her soul she could feel his presence, she did not know how but she could. Why then was she filled with such dread? Such uncertainty and apprehension?

The sun fell early, hiding its face behind the clouds before slipping below the horizon almost unnoticed. The only sign that the life and light of the world had gone was the changing of the grey sky into a darker shade of grey, then black. Still they pushed on. It was risking the horses but Daenerys knew that she would find him tonight. A glow of firelight beyond a distant rise told her that Pinecrest was close. The town would light its fires to ward against the onset of night.

Why was she so nervous? She urged her horse onward, faster, she had to get there. The trees rushed by. Dark pillars that whizzed by on either side. Ser Barristan called out something to her but she ignored it. She had to reach him. She had to see him before the uncertainty overwhelmed her. She topped the rise

And looked down upon chaos.

A building in the centre of the village burnt like a funeral pyre, huge flames leaping and dancing into the night. Lighting up the small town with its harsh dancing light. The building cracked under the onslaught of the blaze. She heard the wood groan in agony as a section of roof collapsed into the inferno below. The fire was eager to leap and spread its destruction, already the adjacent buildings seemed to smoke and glow as pinpricks of flickering light took hold of them.

From that fiery hell she saw a figure emerge, the night cloaked his features in darkness but the blaze behind him cast his shadow as a tall as a giant across the small square. She knew it was the man she was looking for, the man who had caused her uncertainty, her apprehension. She felt the emotionless gaze fall upon her as the figure looked at her silhouetted on the hill. He could not know it was her, but the gaze was the same.

Then The Man turned away and entered one of the adjacent houses.

Within seconds he had blended back into the shadows.

 **I managed to get a (fairly long) chapter out, today. I hope you're enjoying the story so far (I know I'm enjoying writing it). Please remember to drop a review, comment or suggestion, it really helps motivate me and aids in me becoming a better writer.**


	11. Chapter 11

Ramsay stood in the grand hall of Winterfell and looked down at the two bowing guards below him, his eyes shone with a dangerous light.

"Why has it taken you so long to bring the news that my man is dead?" he asked softly, dangerously.

"M'lord, we rode as fast as we could, but the snows slowed our progress."

The soldier spoke gravely and hurriedly. He was trying to explain before Ramsay decided to make an example of him. He had seen the bodies they brought out from his dungeons, all scared, mutilated and deformed. He had no desire to join those who were fed to the dogs. Despite the grey in his beard, he still many years left in him, or so he told himself every day as his body grew weaker, and his scars broke open leaked new blood.

"Do you know who killed him?" Ramsay asked pointedly. Colch had been his man, and he had a special room for people who took things from him.

The soldier paused before continuing.

"Before he died, he told us he had to meet with someone, a cut throat who" He gestured politely at Ramsay "M'lord wanted to kill an enemy of his. He never came back from that meeting, sir."

"How did he die?" Ramsay asked softly. This was not good.

The soldier licked his lips.

"It appeared that he had been killed by some sort of spear, but it was no spear mark that I've ever seen. Somebody did shove something straight through his throat and out the back of his neck, some sort of sharp point that punched straight through."

"Get out." Ramsay growled softly.

The soldiers nodded anxiously before turning and trying not to flee the chamber. People tended to start screaming soon after their lord Ramsay had been in one of his moods.

Ramsay rose from the grand chair and began to pace up and down the dais. The assassin had killed Colch that much was clear. He remembered his father's words, words that had meant nothing to him at the time.

" _Why do you hurt people? Why do you kill people?" his father had asked._

 _It was not an accusation or tone of condemnation, but rather a question. A question that Ramsay now remembered. He considered saying nothing, but his father had a point to make._

" _Because I enjoy it, because I like to watch them break, I like to watch the bravest of them fail, and realise how foolish they are. All men make the same sound when you start flaying fingers."_

 _His father had looked at him with disappointment, but Ramsay's sadism was not the topic he wished to discuss._

" _So you feel something" he concluded "Some sense of satisfaction or enjoyment or cruel pleasure. Yes"_

" _Yes, father" Ramsay agreed. He forced the subservience into his voice, but he knew that, one day soon he would be the only heir of the Bolton line. He would make sure it would come to pass._

" _Most men feel something when taking the life of another, either enjoyment, a feeling of remorse or a sense of being powerful. Having the power to take life because you wish it. It is an intoxicating feeling. Ending a life, no matter how many you've taken, always invokes some sort of response, it invokes something" he paused and seemed to consider what he was saying "but, once I met a man who felt nothing."_

" _What do you mean by nothing father?" Ramsay asked, unsure at the point of this conversation._

" _I mean what I say boy, he felt nothing. He took life and moved on, he did not enjoy killing or detest it he simply did it as if it was of no real importance. As if he felt complete indifference at watching men die by his hand. He's the best assassin I ever met. Single-minded and compassionless. He's also the only man who ever made me feel afraid."_

 _His father afraid! Afraid of some hired knife. Ramsay fought to keep the mocking laughter down. How could Roose Bolton be afraid of some coin hungry murderer! His father was growing old. Old and weak._

" _Mock me boy, you'll see." He said in a steely voice._

" _Father I…_

" _Deny it all you wish Boy, but once you meet him, you'll know what I say is true. You'll realise that he is more terrifying than any feat you can perform with the rack and pincer."_

Ramsay recalled the conversation as he stared out into the empty great hall. Had he done something to offend the man, had he-. He was being foolish. He chided himself. He was not his father, he had nothing to fear from an assassin.

'Then why didn't you meet him yourself?' a small little voice asked challengingly.

'Shut up' Ramsay hissed back at it.

He was the seat of House Bolton now, he would make the man scream if he saw him, make him scream for what he did to Colch. How dare he take a life that was his? Make him scream and scream until his throat bled. Ramsay carefully plotted out all the ways he would hurt the man who had killed his lieutenant.

Still, the shadows in the corners seemed just a little bit darker.


	12. Chapter 12

They arrived in Pinecrest perhaps two hours before dark. The town was dreary and dull. Jon watched from the back of the wagon as bland clothes flapped on their lines, snapping and billowing in the wind. The people moved with a lethargy, a lack of purpose. Moving about their tasks without any enthusiasm. From what Jon could tell, they moved along their lives only to pass the time until their next wage, which they would then drink and whore away in a night, and then repeat the next week.

'It could be the Boltons' Jon thought grimly, this close to Winterfell he saw a number of mailed figures in the dark blue and blood red colours of their foul house. The soldiers eyed the women hungrily and glared at the men savagely. They seemed to sap the life from the town with their malign influence. Jon wondered if anyone would care should the town disappear, if anyone would even noticed if the entire place was simply swallowed by the Earth.

Who would care if this pitiful place disappeared?

The houses were all the same, high angled roofs and wooden walls, each having only a few rooms. The only building of any marked difference was the Inn that stood on the 'main street'. A square, ugly hybrid building of wood and stone that appeared squat despite being the only two story structure in the village. Jon knew it would have flowing mead and an uncomfortable straw mattress, but a bed was a bed, he was tired of the hard wagon.

Jon turned to Coins, the man had grown awfully silent since they had come across the days old conflict, and it still troubled him, all those worthless deaths in a field nobody visited.

"Might it be possible to stop at the Inn for the night, I have some gold crowns left and I feel like a bed tonight." Jon asked. Coins grunted as if he had been snapped out of thought, then he nodded. He too was feeling the strain of traveling so long and hard.

"Darek, go in there" he pointed at the Inn "and ask if they've a stable where we can leave the wagon for the night." Gruff mumbled darkly before complying.

A knife blade of icy air cut through the town, striking then retreating in an instant. It left a pit in Jon's stomach, it was the third such occurrence he had felt that day. It always came from the North and struck South and it made him think of cold dead things in the snow.

"Sir, if you don't mind me asking…" Coins began but Jon cut him off.

"I do mind, I don't want any questions." He said curtly.

"I understand that Sir, but please tell me something"

Jon wanted to snap at him. To tell him that he paid him for his silence as much as his wagon.

"What's coming from the North?" Coins had fear in his voice, fear and uncertainty "I've had this sense in my bones for too long now, all throughout Autumn I got this growing feeling, that … this wasn't the end times, but we weren't far away either. I got the sense that all the killings, war, armies and kings was a last gasp." He looked at Jon sadly, an immense sadness for so much wasted life.

"The last gasp of a dying world."

His statement hung suspended in the air, like a headsman's axe reaching the top of its arc. Hovering as it did before crashing down and delivering the killing blow.

"Well is it? Is this the end?"

Jon knew in his heart what the answer was, what it had been for a long time now, but for the sake of this man, for the sake of that look in his eye that was asking for reassurance, asking to be told that everything would be okay, Jon forced a brave face.

"Ay there terrible things coming this winter, terror coming from the North but the Queen has dragons, and dragons can turn the tide of any war." He clapped Coins on the shoulder reassuringly.

"You'll see, it'll be alright." It tasted like ashes in his mouth.

Gruff emerged from the Inn and hoped back into the wagon.

"Well they don't got a stable, but they got a fenced yard where the horses can rest. 20 silvers for the horses and the rooms… if" he looked at Jon "If you'll be having your own room sir?"

Jon nodded, sighed and pulled the money from his ever diminishing stock.

By the time they had unhitched and settled the horses, night was falling outside. The darkness did not creep up, but seemed merely to snatch the day away suddenly. Not that the clouded skies had made the day particularly bright.

The 'yard'' where they left the wagon was a small muddy square at the back of the Inn. It was crowded with barrels, boxes and animals and it was enclosed by an eight foot high wooden wall that had seen better days. The Innkeeper, a staunch grey stocky man assured them that the gate to the yard would be tightly padlocked in the night. Jon certainly hoped so. Some of the town's people looked desperate enough to try anything.

The small group took their supper in the common room, where the despair clouding the village was filtered at somewhat by the shouts of drunkards and the bawdy songs of the local traveling player. Jon wished he could join in, wished he could uncaringly drink himself into a stupor, he wished he could dance and sing with joviality of the fools he saw around him. The patrons were both young and old, men and women and they lived in the moment, lived in this night. They drank, sang and danced with abandon as if tomorrow would never come.

The smoke from the oil lamps, on a few tables, and pipes stung his eyes somewhat but otherwise the atmosphere was pleasant, a welcome change from their depressing travel through the North

"Will you be leaving us at Winterfell sir?" Gruff asked him above the noise. Jon had watched him knock back a few mugs of ale. He couldn't really blame him, it was not as if the journey had been pleasant.

"I think so."

Gruff took another exaggerated swig of ale "Who's hunting you?"

Jon glared at him darkly, perhaps the ale had loosened his tongue.

"You've the look of a hunted wolf Sir. I've seen it before and I don't like seeing it on one as young as you." Gruff leaned across the table, though Jon thought he was drunk, he saw a deep pain behind the man's eyes that no drink could fully dull.

"You got your whole life ahead of you, why are you running?"

The question seemed to hit Jon in the chest. Who was he running from, well the assassin obviously but it was more than that, he could have stayed at Castle Black, could have fought or hunted his hunter but he hadn't, he had ran, but more than that why was he running? To what end? To where? The questions swirled in his mind as the idea took root. Why was he beset with such confusion, why did his emotions seem to swirl and threaten to overwhelm him? Why could he not get that stupid dream out of his head? It was a fancy, a delusion, something conjured from his stressed mind, but still he could not ignore it, the tantalising illusion that had seemed so real. The illusion of Love, of a perfect life.

Gruff studied his face for a moment.

"It's a girl in'nit? Never seen men looked more confused than when there be a woman involved."

Jon was silent, his thoughts stony. He thought back to the dream that he remember with crystal clarity, the perfect village under a cloudless sky, the beautiful girl with different faces.

Gruff guffawed loudly "I'm right ain't I? But mate why are you running away?" Jon could hear the slur in his voice "You should go to her, grab her tight, don't let go." The pain shone in Gruff's eyes again.

"Do it while you still got time, while you're both still young, cause gods know time is running out for all of us."

Jon tried to envision a future without war or cold, without death or violence and for a while he could see it, he could fool himself into thinking that that perfect future could be his. That village could be real… but then a shadow darkened his thoughts, and a cold wind whistled through the village, turning it dark and silent. No, that future wasn't his.

The door crashed open. And several figures darkened the entry way, all the mirth and laughter suddenly seemed to die as the four Bolton soldiers strolled in. Jon could see another just outside the door. They wore mail and carried axes, swords and spears. They were here for a fight.

The first stepped forward, he had a flat nosed and cruel eyes.

"GET OUT, ALL OF YOU!" he roared at the Inn. The patrons wasted no time in streaming out the door, they left their drinks and walked with eyes downcast. Coins, Gruff and Jon rose to join the thinning throng.

The soldier pointed a finger at him and smiled a gap toothed grin.

"Not you, you sit right there."

Coins and Gruff hesitated and for that, that small show of loyalty, Jon was eternally grateful.

He sat back down and looked at them "Go, this isn't your fight."

Coins nodded and he and Gruff joined the tail end of the procession. Jon nodded to Coins as he glanced over his shoulder in worry, then he and Gruff were past the soldiers and into the night beyond. The tavern was empty except for Jon and the soldiers. Under the table Jon quietly loosened his sword and knife in their scabbards as the gap toothed man strolled to his table.

He made an effort to loom over Jon as he arrogantly stood on the opposite end of the table.

"Lord Ramsay be looking fir someone, who looks 'n awful lot like you…" He said, spraying spit at Jon as he did so. He screwed up his face and looked at Jon menacingly, the cruel glint only too apparent in his eyes, Jon saw him heft his axe. He opened his mouth to continue "Dead or al-"

THUD

A body hit the floor. Both Jon and the soldiers turned their heads to stare at the body of the soldier who had stood outside. He lay motionless across the doorframe with a long shaft in his skull.

"What the fu-"

In a swift motion, Jon drew his belt dagger and stabbed Gap Tooth through the hand. The short sharp blade crunched through bone, as it went hilt deep into his hand. In surprise Gap Tooth jerked back, dropping the axe but yanking the knife away from Jon's grip in the process. Jon heard a window shatter. From the corner of his eye he saw another soldier yell in surprise as a shaft crashed through his knee cap. The soldier looked down at the shaft protruding from his leg in surprise. A second arrow went straight through his skull as he staggered, his eyes narrowed in shock at the broad head sticking through the front of his mouth, blood burst from his mouth, then he fell face first.

Pressing the advantage, Jon pushed up hard against the table with his left hand and drew Longclaw with his right. The table crashed onto the off-balanced Gap Tooth and knocked him to the floor. Jon delivered two short stabs through the table into the figure below. The tip of the sword emerged from the wood gleaming with blood.

Jon looked up in surprise as the third soldier charged him, with his sword raised. He swung at Jon, hard. Jon raised Longclaw to block, but it was weak. The soldier's sword connected with his and knocked him off balance. Jon staggered back into another table. Another window exploded as an arrow thudded into the table behind him.

He saw the soldier raise his sword to deliver another blow and in desperation Jon grabbed something round and hard on the table behind him and hurled it at the oncoming soldier. The object burned his hand as he threw it. Jon watched as the Oil lamp sailed towards the soldier. The soldier instinctively swung his sword at the object… and screamed in horror as the blade connected, the lamp smashed and burning oil exploded coating the floor at his feet, his sword, mail and skin.

The soldier screamed in agony as his flesh caught alight, as his body became a torch in an instant, his arms flailed wildly as he stumbled back and collapsed as the flames crisped his skin. Jon jerked back from the inferno that bathed the dim room in fierce light.

Jon turned and found the last soldier bearing down on him spear levelled. Jon dogged the thrust and brought his sword down on the shaft on the spear, cleaving it in two. The soldier recovered quickly and swung the blunt end of the spear like a bat. Jon felt it connect with his skull as his head snapped away from the blow, he tried to swing at the soldier but found that the soldier grabbed his sword wrist as he did so. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw the harsh glint of a dirk. He grabbed the soldier's wrist and stopped the daggers thrust, but it inched towards him, towards his side. He looked into the soldiers cruel, ugly eyes. He smelt his foul breath. He didn't want that smell to be his last sensation, but try as he might the dagger slipped closer and closer.

THUD

The soldier stiffened, and Jon felt a prick on his chest. The soldiers grip on his wrist slackened. Jon glanced down at the arrow that had grown straight through the soldier's chest and now pricked his own. He quickly plucked the arrow from his flesh. The soldier looked at him with confused, dying eyes, he opened his mouth as if to speak but only dark red blood ran from it. Jon realized he was still holding the man's wrist. Another arrow struck the soldier in the back, and he toppled forward. Jon grabbed the dead man by the scruff of his shirt, and propped the body up. He glanced around, and using the body as a shield he shuffled towards the stairs, another two shafts hit the corpse in the back. Jon nearly lost his footing on something as he backed up. He looked down and saw the two foot long shaft and spear head he had severed.

He looked in dismay at the firelight that bathed the room, it had caught the wood in a number of places. Flames had spread from the oil bathed soldier and now licked a number of tables. As he reached the stairs, Jon shoved the body backwards, into the rapidly growing heat of the common room and grabbed the spear head before turning to run up the stairs.

An arrow flew into the body as it fell and Jon had only a moment to glance at the shadow in the doorway before his feet carried him almost involuntarily up the stairs. He sprinted down the hall way and crashed into the room that had been unlocked for him. He had heard footsteps behind him, he was sure of it, the assassin had found him. Jon slammed the door, barred it and backed away just in time as an arrow head erupted out of the wooden door.

Using the spear head Jon smashed the small window that looked down into the alley between the Inn and a neighbouring house. He cleared the glass away, the window was small but he could make it through.

"Why are you running Jon Snow." The voice came from the other side of the door. Calm and empty. "You know what's coming, you know you can't stop it, why not just give up?"

Jon turned and stabbed the spear into the door in a rage, it barely penetrated, but he withdrew it anyway.

"Fuck you" he shouted at the door before dropping his weapons into the alley swinging his legs through the window, twisting his body and dropping. He hit the ground hard, almost enough to wind him, but the pure adrenalin pumping in his body kept him going. The air smelt like smoke and his eyes burnt, tears rolled down his checks. He could see the flames bursting from the common room windows at the end of the alley. He grabbed the spear head and his sword, turned to move down the alley and found an iron barred gate blocking the way between him and the path that led to the yard.

He knew that running out the front of the alley would leave him with an arrow in his skull, as would staying where he was. He looked around frantically, he knew he had seconds left. A window on his right led into the house. A shadow at the end of the alley. He dove through the window, glass shattering around him… and felt a sting in his side.

Jon landed on his shoulder hard and looked down to see the throwing knife that had landed above his hip. He rose, grabbed the knife by the hilt and slid it out his side. Its serrated edge cut his flesh and Jon grunted in pain. He shouldered through the door into the living room, his breath came in gasps, and his muscles ached. Smoke filled his nostrils and he could hear the Inn protesting as the fire took hold, its support beams groaned under the onslaught of heat. Jon knew the assassin was coming for him, but in the darkness he could see no way out except the door he had come from. Instead he crouched behind a thick dining table, his side searing in pain as he did so. Blood slicked his hand went he felt the wound, but adrenalin sustained him… for now.

The door creaked open. Jon held his breath. Something darkened the doorway. Jon rose from his hiding spot, the shadow turned. Jon flung the shortened spear and watched as it took the assassin in the leg. The assassin dove out the doorway, the spear still lodged in his leg. Jon prepared to rush forward, sword raised to deliver a killing blow, but a knife flew from the darkness beyond the door and struck Jon in his thigh. He grunted as he fell, kicking the table over as he did so, a knife flew into the table. Jon had no doubt it would have taken him in the head.

Jon saw the exit he had been looking for, tucked away in the corner of the room. Despite the burning in his leg and side he charged the door and messily crashed through it into a hallway. He could feel the blood running down his leg as he sprinted down the hallway slammed through the door at the end, and found himself outside. The yard was too his right. The flames swirled and danced now within the Inn.

The wood screamed as part of the roof fell, flooding the alley behind him with burning embers and blazing beams.

Jon limped to the yard gate, he could feel his body growing weaker and weaker as his lifeblood was pumped out. Thank gods the gate had been left open. Jon slashed a horses tether with his sword and awkwardly hoisted himself up onto the nervous beast. Its eyes were wide with panic, it smelt the flames. It smelt blood. He felt hot and cold at the same time. The knife in his leg was agony. He had to get away, away from the assassin, away from it all.

He felt drowsy as the horse galloped out of the burning town, he clutched his side, trying hold his life in. His breathing was laboured. He had… had to… had to get away.

As town gave way to forest, blood was the only thing he could smell.

 **So I got a fairly long chapter done today. There have been a couple reviews expressing some concerns/ irritations people have had about the story, specifically what I originally said in my chapter 1 authors notes when I thought this would be a one shot. The author's notes have since been amended. The other concern is my use of the 'romance' and 'Jon/Daenerys' tags to 'fool' people into reading the story, and while it may appear that I deceived people for views (promising them one thing and giving them another) I would argue that that is the point of the story. Subversion of expectation (much like what both the books and show do) is really what I'm going for here.**

 **I do appreciate constructive feedback and I hope that if you have any feedback, suggestions or criticism you'll drop a review, as it really does help me identify my own errors and helps me improve.**


	13. Chapter 13

The horse carried him onward, even though he had long since stopped directing its movements. All he felt was cold. An eternity had passed since he left Pinecrest, an eternity of silence and ever decreasing awareness.

He knew he was in pain. His breath was laboured and his body ached, but he mostly just felt a chill that leeched into his bones, made his eyes drowsy. He wanted to sleep, to dream. To dream a pleasant dream he hazily remembered. A village that seemed far away. He felt his eye's closing, darkness enveloped him for a spilt second.

He pitched sideways off the horse. The ankle deep snow enveloped his head. Freezing hands stroked his scalp. His eyes exploded open as agony ripped at his side. He shot into a sitting position, his breath coming in fast gasps, which only seemed to allow frigid air into his innards. He felt his sword at his side. At least he had managed to keep it.

He struggled into a standing position, his legs felt like jelly and the adrenalin that had sustained him had fled. The darkness of the woods closed in around him. Every tree, a towering oak soldier, every branch a grasping gnarled hand, every shadow hiding a knife that would go between his shoulder blades. He took a hesitant step, then another, he knew that if he stopped, if he fell, he was dead. The snow would embrace him and he would succumb to that icy sleep.

The trail of red marked his passage, a few drops here, a few drops there. All turned the pure snow a light red. One step, then another. His vision blurred at the edges and his brain screamed at him to rest, to lie down just for a moment. His leg ached like a bruise and burnt like a flame, the knife was still hilt deep in his thigh. He knew that if he pulled it out, his blood would abandon him completely.

One step, then another, keep moving forward, keep running.

He wondered if the fire had consumed the entire town, if it had hungrily devoured the place, and gutted all those ramshackle structures. Displaced all those families, consumed the bodies he had left behind. It felt as if his feet had begun to turn into stones, stones that grew heavier with every step.

Keep running.

The trees towered above him, caging him in the forest, providing no way out, no escape. He wondered if the liquid pooling in his boots was snow melt or blood. His ears pounded, a drumming, a rhythm. It sounded awfully like a battle song _. Boom, Boom, Boom._

The faces in the shadows disappeared as he turned to confront them. Where had the horse gone? Where was Ghost? He held his sword, as crutch and to confront the terrors he knew would rise out of the snow at any second. He stabbed the earth as he pressed on it. He heard it rumble in pain, or what the drum?

The moon smiled down on him, grinning at his plight, he wanted to curse it. The clouds assumed monstrous forms to glide across the sky. Thousand headed beasts and beings too terrible to comprehend, all stalked through the stars, devouring them with their terrifying bulk.

Keep running. Keep run…

Just another step, just one more.

The forest was cloaked in silence, a silence that was far too loud to bear.

Where was the village? He had to get there he had to see her. Hold her in his arms, he couldn't die without seeing her one last time. He remembered her, he had to find her.

"You don't even know why you're running."

A figure loomed out of the shadows that closed in on him, the figure he had seen in the town, the figure who had chased him into this prison of delirium. Jon slashed clumsily at the shadows… and hit only empty air, the figure had disappeared. His sword through hissed through nothing. And bounced off a trunk, Jon staggered back.

"You can't stop them, you said it yourself. Gruff asked you why you were running, and you didn't know, you still don't know."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Jon just staggered forward, he couldn't stop. He had to get there.

"Your family is gone, dead or fled. Your 'Watch' fields less than three hundred men. Your home has been seized by a madman. You have nothing to fight for, no future to preserve. Why do you keep on, you know you could have just jumped off the Wall, but you didn't. Why?"

The voice surrounded him, sounded in his skull. His eyes were wide as he searched for the figure, ready to cut them down, ready to kill them. He found he could not lift his feet. The blood and water must have frozen solid in his boot that must explain why they were so heavy. Just another step. He ignored the voice, he chose not to hear its questions. He lifted his foot and put it down in front of him. It felt as if the very air was turning to water around him, making him move in slow motion. For a second he was at the bottom of an emotion, then the forest surrounded him once more.

"You aren't running from something as much as you're running to something."

Jon's mouth felt far too dry. He tried to swallow but his throat only burned.

"I have to… to get there"

"Where?"

"To the meadows, to the green f… the green fields… to the summer that doesn't end." Jon didn't even hear the words leave his mouth, he just kept on shuffling forward.

"You're looking for a place that doesn't exist" it was a statement.

"I'll find it, it has to be…" He panted "It has to be real."

The voice changed then, from emotionless drawl to another voice, a younger man's voice. A voice full of sadness and burdened with the world. Burdened with those he had lost.

"Not in this life."

It was his voice. The Voice vanished, in the one rational part that remained of his mind he questioned if it had been real. Or if he had just been shouting at the trees, he almost expected the oaks to turn to him and reply.

Then he saw her, through the towering trunks. In a clearing bathed with the softest silver moonlight he saw her standing there looking at him longingly. He needed to join her, he wanted to join her. He heard galloping behind him. He guessed that the forest giants had finally decided to eat him for trespassing, but he did not care. She was so close now. He could practically smell the flowers in the field, hear the children playing and the men grumbling at the chores that never ended, the women laughing, see the small cottage he knew was his.

He knew that if he reached her she would take him away. Ten Steps. The galloping drew closer. It must be more than one forest giant.

Jon took another step.

The riders arrived as Jon turned to watch look at them, his eyes full of confusion and pain. Then he staggered and collapsed into the snow with a thud.

 **So I quite enjoyed writing about the imagery in this chapter and I am still enjoying the story quite a lot (perhaps more so than anything I've written for fanfiction before.) As always, if you have any thoughts on this chapter or the story in general please drop a review and let me know.**


	14. Chapter 14

_The Man threw his second knife into the house, he heard it 'thunk' into something wooden, something that wasn't flesh. He lay on his back, out of the corner of his eye he could see the spear shaft protruding from just below his hip. He briefly considered moving into the house to finish the Crow. He knew he had hit him twice, but it wasn't worth it, there would be other opportunities to kill him even if the Crow didn't bleed to death._

 _The Man carefully stood up. The Inn cast a light across the street, anyone looking at The Man might have seen him grimace in pain as he stood, turned and limped off in the opposite direction. Some might consider it a failure. He had missed his target. He had no doubt the Crow would now disappear, try and bury himself as deeply as possible, but he had ways of tracking injured prey._

It had been a good throw. The Crow had put all his fear and anger behind, all his willpower and desire to live had been behind that throw.

This The Man thought as he examined the wound. He had ridden through the night to the Winter town. The walls of the castle loomed above the Inn in which he had taken a room. The Innkeeper had looked startled when a man with a spear sticking out of his leg had entered and calmly asked for a room, but he had seen stranger things.

The pot he had on the small wood stove began to hiss and whistle. Time to work.

From his travel bag he arranged the medical supplies he had brought with him. Bandages, cloths and potent spirits that had been distilled by an alchemist in Oldtown. The rest he left in the bag.

Gripping the shaft The Man slowly withdrew the spear point, his hands barely shaking as the barbed tip exited his flesh. He felt the pain but he removed himself from it, he didn't look as he pulled the spear out, he instead stared off into the middle distance as the steel slid out of the wound. It came free. He brought the spear to his face and looked at the bloodstained tip. A good throw indeed.

He pressed the gauze to the wound, stopping the blood that began to flow. With the other hand he took the pot off the stove and then soaked the cloth in the boiling water, carefully he drizzled some of the spirits on the rag. The stuff stank of unnatural cleanliness. He removed the gauze and pressed the cloth to the wound. It stung and burnt at the same time. The Man winced. The sting told him that the spirits were working. Burning out any potential infection. Good. He bandaged the wound before testing his leg. He would still have a limp, but it would service.

He repacked his bag and disappeared from the Inn before nightfall.

Jon's eyes opened slowly, hazily. Sleep clouded his brain. He had been having a pleasant dream, but he could not recall what it was. Before that dream were nightmares he could not give shape or form, he had been running, endlessly running and it had been so cold, but that did not matter now, he was warm under the blankets. Light streamed into the room from somewhere, but he could not find the energy to lift his head and look. Heaps of furs covered him, surrounding his body with a comforting warmth. Sleep claimed him once more, dragging him back to its dream filled depths.

His eyes opened again, and he shot bolt upright. Awareness flooded his mind. He remembered the forest, the pain as his body tried to give carry on. A hallucination that scared him more than anything else could have.

His hand went to his side and then his leg, he found both bandaged and clean, it still ached but at least the blood flow had been stopped. He remember a burning building, knives sailing through the air towards him. His head pounded.

"We thought you would die, Jon Snow, you had lost a lot of blood."

He knew that voice, he knew the face that spoke them. He had seen it in his dreams. He had a new jerkin on and pants from the feel of it, for that he was grateful. Slowly he turned to face the voice and found the Mother of Dragons sitting a few feet from him on a hard wooden stool. She was how he remembered her, but the light in her eyes was older. She was beginning to understand.

She wore tailored riding clothes, sewn to be tough but also to fit one of her station. She still had not entirely lost her vanity though. She was still beautiful, but she looked more haunted now. She kept her features smooth, but worry lurked behind them.

"Your Grace, I… don't know what to say."

Her voice was distracted, as if she had not heard the comment "You seemed intent on dying for a while, your body refused to heal itself… but after a few hours you began to recover."

Jon looked her in the eyes and forced her to see him "Why did you save me? I thought I would be of no further use to you, perhaps even an obstacle… so why did you help me."

Her face was pained for an instant, but just an instant. The Queen that sat before him faded, and suddenly he saw a girl, frightened, worried and confused. She looked at him.

"The same man after you is after me, the same assassin. We are being hunted."

"Ay, he attacked in my apartments at castle Black and later in that Inn

"Did you see him? Did you see his face? Any features or marks." The longing for knowledge in her voice was plain.

"No, it was through a door, but that voice… I've never heard anything like it."

"What did it sound like? Some sort of rasp or growl?"

"No, it sounded cold as if that man had never had feelings, as if he didn't see the world in the same way we do. " Jon gave a short bitter laugh "We were in the middle of a burning Inn, he had just killed three people and then he asks me… he asks me..."

"What did he ask you?" Her voice was soft, willing him to go on, her eyes of deep lilac eyes searched his for answers.

"He asked me why I was running…" Jon paused his voice grew softer "Why I was running when there was no hope."

She exhaled softly "Why do you believe there's no hope? You don't even want to entertain the idea of fighting the Others. Why?"

"A lot of people have been asking me that lately, asking me 'why', truth be told I've been asking myself as well." He swallowed, his eyes stung "my father's dead, my brothers are dead or gone, my sisters have vanished and are probably dead too."

Daenerys looked at him, she knew what loss felt like but what sounded in his voice was worse.

"My families gone in a war they didn't ask or look for, taken by a conflict they never sought. That's all I've seen… conflict, violence, war… I think it's about all we're capable of. I don't want to fight the Oth…" He took a deep breath to steady himself "I don't want to fight the Others because I think that… that maybe this world should die. That maybe the Others are our cleansing. How can there be death, violence, sorrow, fear and loss in a world where there is no war, in a world where there are no people?" He looked at sadly, he knew the feeling of sadness too well.

She reached out and grabbed his hand. He widened his eyes in surprise but quickly recovered.

"I offer it to you again, help me take the throne, unite the North and when I'm Queen, peace will reign, I'll not seek war, I'll stop the fighting. Stop the slaughter of the innocents."

He smiled a small smile.

"It's a fine dream, Your Grace. A world without war is a fine goal, very noble, but war looks for you even if you don't seek it. So long as men exist they will fight, over whose village is finer, over who controls fertile land, over whose God is the one true deity."

She squeezed his hand, as if trying to pump hope back into his body. He saw then why she had saved him. She could not understand why he did not believe in her when everyone else did, why he insisted on doubting her.

"You'll make a fine Queen one day Daenerys Targaryen, possibly the best there ever has been, but even the most powerful, most just, most kind ruler in the world cannot change the nature of man."

She looked down then, his point had struck.

"Why does he scare me?" She asked the floor.

"Who?" Jon asked even though he knew the answer, he had been contemplating the question himself.

She looked up at him and Jon realised there were tears in her perfect purple eyes.

"This assassin, this murderer. I've faced warlocks and blood magic, but they do not instil the fear that this one assassin does. He's just one man yet I shiver to think of his dark gaze upon me. He kills randomly, seemingly indiscriminately, the guilty, the innocent, he doesn't care, it's no difference to him."

As much as he had mentally chastised her for her arrogance, he hated seeing her like this, confused, dazed and worried. Worried over a knife without a face, a man without a name.

She inhaled deeply and was calm once more.

"Enough about him. I can spend my whole life worrying about what could kill me, about when I'm going to die and what's going to kill me" she had assumed a bit more of a regal air once more "Or I can live in the moment." She strode to the small table and poured two goblets of wine. She handed one to him and he took it cautiously, she then sat back on the stool with her legs crossed, the sadness and fear of the past few moments forgotten. She looked more at ease, less worried. He was weary of this, very weary.

"So drink, Jon Snow, and tell me all about what ails you."

 **So, new chapter, some romantic undertones as well as some more explanation of Jon's philosophy and state of mind. I did quite enjoy writing this chapter, perhaps not as much as some of the more desolate scenes, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. Remember to drop a review if you are enjoying the story.**


	15. Chapter 15

Jon watched as Daenerys quickly became hopelessly drunk. He understood even if he did not approve. She drank to drown what she could not change, she drank to mask the fact that she was beginning to understand.

A goblet of wine had turned into three, then four. She had been pleasant enough company, but Jon felt uncomfortable seeing her like this, her mind addled by drink. Her questions had been ordinary enough at first, but they had soon become… uncomfortable. Jon did not like talking about his time North of the Wall, he did not like talking about Ygritte, but Daenerys had persisted. Jon had watched and listened with growing concern as she had become drunk and her questions grew far less restrained and far more provocative. Her eyes began to cloud with might have been confusion or desire, he suspected the later, and her gestures became overly careful and exaggerated, Jon had noticed as she spilled wine out the flagon when pouring her fourth goblet. He suspected where this was going.

Instead of staggering back to the stool, she walked unsteadily to where Jon sat on the edge of the bed and sat next to him, right next to him. She was leaning on him, distantly he noticed that she had unlaced her bodice somewhat, exposing the some of her breasts. She used his frame to support her. She lay her head on his shoulder and kept asking, her questions lost any pretence as she went on. Jon stopped answering. This couldn't happen.

When she abruptly straddled his lap and tried to kiss him, Jon grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away before standing. Her eyes looked hurt, but she was far too drunk to make a convincing argument for herself, she would be regal cold hatred in the morning, but tonight she was just a girl, a scared drunk girl.

It was not that Jon did not think she was beautiful, he knew she was, he could see it before him, her silver gold hair shone in the dim firelight, her lips were full and red. In her drunken stupor he knew that there was no ulterior motive or scheme she could be conducting, but he stopped her all the same. He would not allow her, beautiful as she may be, to use him like this, he had seen behind her eyes why she had tried to leap at him with such abandon and wretched desire, she _was_ afraid no matter how hard she tried to hide it. Surrounded by so much death and doubt, she needed to feel alive but he couldn't let her do this.

He would not delude himself into thinking her attraction to him was anything more than primal, he was a bastard, she royalty. Besides even if by some miracle he was legitimised, he would not allow her to grow attached to him when there was so little time left, it would only hurt more when the end came.

He sat her down gently but firmly on the bed before taking his leave. He could feel her eyes boring into his back as he left, a mixture of despair and fury. He thought he heard a choked sob as he left. His heart felt like bursting at that. He knew what if felt like to feel so lost overmatched and confused, he wanted to go back into the tent, stroke her hair and shush, lie to her and say that he believed, that everything was going to be alright, but he didn't. He kept on walking out into the cold beyond the tent.

The wounds in his side and leg felt ginger, but they had healed somewhat, he supposed he should thank a god somewhere for the recovery. Then he remembered a man he had seen in the field, face down in the dirt, a dirk embedded in his skull. Jon thought better of thanking the gods, no benevolent gods would have allowed that to happen. He realised was bitter. Lashing out at anything he could, even the gods.

This he knew as he stalked through the grey sheet of fog that surrounded the camp. He was bitter because he could not have her, even though he wanted to. The fact that she had found him as he had been on his last legs close to death made it seem almost like destiny that they had met once again. 'Destined to be together' he thought sourly, but he had been wrong before. Worst of all he knew he wanted to, he hadn't been with a women in what felt like years, let alone found one he could actually bring himself to care fo-

He would not do this again, could not do this again. He would not fall once more for a women who the world would take from him, better to save everyone the pain and make the break clean and quick rather than torturously prolonged.

He felt loneliness tugging at his soul, but instead of giving in he used it to fuel him, he filled himself with the despair and longing .It would drive him forward, sustain him, even if it tasted like acid in his mouth and felt like ruins in his soul. He knew he had to go to Winterfell, to stop the Bolton madman from defiling his home any longer and to visit his family in their final resting places. That made him shiver. Once he had feared ghosts in the catacombs of Winterfell, but now he knew that much worse things than ghosts lurked in the world. However, he would rather face all the ghosts in the world than listen to her cry anymore.

The clouded misty night didn't even offer moonlight to guide him. He made for the horse lines, and found himself intercepted by Ser Barristan.

"Jon Snow, good to see that you're still with us."

"Thank you for your aid my lord."

Ser Barristan frowned and spoke lower "When we found you, you were half mad, gibbering and muttering about a voice without a body and a village of some sort. The injuries were bad, boy, but the Queen insisted everything possible be done to save you, she seemed very worried, so much so that she insisted on staying with you until you woke up."

It was worse than Jon thought, she did care for him, and he had rejected her.

"Thank you Ser, The Queen was very… hospitable, however I fear she had a bit too much to drink."

Ser Barristan's eyes widened slightly, he knew what drink could do to people.

"Tell me, boy, did you bed her?" He asked the question flatly, dangerously.

"No, but she did try."

Ser Barristan sighed the danger left his voice and he just seemed old "I feared as much, she has lost much, and she is still young, she searches for a companion to aid her through these dark times, somebody to rely on. We travelled long and hard to find you Jon Snow, I suspected she might try something of the sort… and you rebuked her?"

"Yes" Jon said simply.

Barristan scratched his chin thoughtfully "I take it you will be leaving then?" Jon's silence told him the answer. "Well then I wish you farewell. Be mindful of those wounds, boy, they were quite nasty."

Jon nodded his thanks and turned to leave.

"Jon Snow, I understand why you did what you did" Jon doubted it "but it does not mean she will take it lightly, it would perhaps be best if you left hurriedly."

"Thank you for the advice Ser." Jon bowed his head as a show of thanks and respect.

It did not take much time to find a saddled horse, the guards did not even try stop him.

Jon mounted the horse and rode off into the night.

 **So another chapter down. Hope you guys and girls are enjoying the story and (as per usual) if you have any comments or suggestions don't hesitate to drop a review.**


	16. Chapter 16

Jon rode south, away from the camp and towards Winterfell, the predawn gloom shrouded the world, but a growing light hinted that this day might break the pattern of storm and snow. The growing light hinted at a day that would display the blazing winter sun in all its glory, but until that sun rose he rode through gloom. He sat the horse carefully, he did not want the wounds reopening. He doubted he would survive that.

Despite his caution he still rode the horse fast, he needed to move away from the camp, away from her, away from something he could not have.

The castle was no less than half a day's ride from his current location, he had ridden this path before. He had walked in these woods. He remembered the long hunting trips with his brothers, moving through the forest without care or caution, hunting both animals and adventure. They had been young and their lives had stretched forth in front of them, full of possibility and hope. War had changed that. Jon knew that those bright futures had dwindled and died, that the boys who had roamed these woods were long gone, taken by death or changed by hardship. But as Jon sat his horse, gazing out into the forest, he knew that those memories would be safe here in these secluded woods. In his memories those boys, full of life, confidence, bravado and arrogance would hunt forever, living out dreams that never ended, having good times that never drew to a close.

He carefully packed the memory into his heart before he moved on, the sounds of perfect days fading into the recess of his mind as he did so.

* * *

"Where, did he go?" She asked slowly, venom dripping from her voice.

"Your Grace, he did not say but he went south, towards Winterfell." Selmy said gravely, she was indeed very angry, he almost pitied Jon Snow "Your Grace, might I suggest letting him go, our scouts have brought information that Stannis Baratheon is in the vicinity of Winterfell, planning to lay a siege, it might be best if we av-"

She held up a curt to stop in "I will find him, and if I want your advice Ser, I will ask for it.

"Yes, Your Grace" He said bowing his head, there would be no way to stop her in this folly. He just had to let it take his course.

"The Bolton's hold Winterfell, why is he going there?" She asked coolly, as if astounded by his stupidity.

"I can't say for certain Your Grace, but I believe it is to pay respect to his family and kill Ramsay Bolton if he can."

"Does he have a death wish?" She asked angrily "He will not need the Bolton's to kill him, if I find I'll do it myself."

This was absolute folly, Ser Barristan could not keep silent "Your Grace, you may release me from my service for saying this, but are we not being hasty?"

"I want him found!" she all but shouted at him "How dare he leave, after denyi…" She stopped herself from saying anything further. That would be too much. She felt like an embarrassed child, she had practically thrown herself at him and _still_ he denied her, made her feel like a fool. Once she found him, she would make him beg for mercy. Her wrath would be terrible.

Ser Barristan spoke slowly and exceptionally carefully "My Queen, you cannot kill him for …." He paused "it is not a crime to refuse. Besides, he is a landless bastard, and a deserter from the Nights Watch, you can find more suitable… partners."

She pretended not to hear him "Strike camp, we move before the hours end" she turned from him and looked out from the small rise into the towering, snow-capped trees that surrounded them "I will find him, and I will punish him for defying his Queen."

Ser Barristan barely managed not to sigh "Very well, Your Grace."

She strode off angrily. She walked until the trees hid her from the camp. Damn him! Damn the bloody bastard. She wanted to hit something, burn something, but instead tears welled. He had made her feel like an idiot. She could not understand it… no she could understand it, but she did not want to. She had felt so overcome with lust and desire, not just physical desire, but the desire to feel alive, to feel life, and still he had flat out denied her. She wondered what she would do when she found him, she wanted to make him feel as she felt. Once she had collected herself and safely locked away her emotions she returned to the camp and found her small band mounted and ready. She swiftly saddled her own horse before they followed what was left of the tracks he had made no effort to hide.

* * *

Jon rode onward through the day, he watched as the gloom faded and the day brightened into one of perfection. The winter sun was weak but its rays both brightened and warmed the land to a degree. Jon watched as a few snowflakes floated down lazily as the morning wore on, the light caught them and turned each into a sparkling pin prick of light. The forest gave way to farmland, the trees dwindling to make way for the fields where no crops grew in the cold.

He smiled despite himself when he saw some children playing in a field behind a barn. They waged fierce battle with each other. Snow balls flew into the makeshift 'walls' they had erected, they wore buckets on their heads and carried makeshift wooden 'shields'. He listened to the sound of laughter and argument as the small projectiles splattered and crisscrossed the battle field.

Then the castle came into view in the distance. A black speck that could barely be seen across miles of rolling fields. It grew larger and larger as Jon approached along the road. In the distance he saw the lazy trails of smoke that rose above the Wintertown, they stretched towards the heavens and disappeared into the clear blue, from this distance they looked like wisps of silk that stretched towards the sky. The wind whistled across the snow covered fields, sweeping small drifts of dusty snowflakes across the cobblestones. Jon wrapped his cloak around him tighter to keep out the chill. He huddled into it, searching for all the warmth it provided him.

The clear blue sky stretched forever, beyond the horizon. It was unmarred by clouds and storm banks.

However in the fields below the castle Jon could make out hundreds of dark blotches in the snow, the ground looked disturbed and trampled, as if thousands of men had walked on those grounds and turned the thick snow to slush. A battle. Stannis's battle. Jon suspected that Stannis had failed, it would not make sense that the Bolton's still patrolled these lands if he had succeeded. His army lost to the snow or smashed by the Bolton's. Judging by the corpses in the field however, it had been an assault by the Bolton's then that had finally broken the Great Stannis Baratheon once and for all. Another name claimed by the Game of thrones.

* * *

Daenerys rode hard, she pushed the horses harder than she had ever dared before. She would find him, however, she had not yet decided if she would kiss him or kill him when she did.

She asked herself 'It had to be now, didn't it?'

* * *

Twelve horses rode down the road in the opposite direction. Jon watched them grow closer. As they approached the blood red and dark blue of the Bolton uniform became visible.

'It makes sense' Jon thought grimly, the Bolton's owned Winterfell now, it only made sense that they patrolled these lands, their lands. Hopefully he could change that, a knife in the back would end Ramsay Bolton once and for all.

What happens after that?' a small voice asked 'Will you kill the whole Bolton army yourself?' the voice mocked him. He did not answer back.

Despite the fields, a few trees still dotted the side of the road. Jon wondered if he could hide behind one, but then thought better of it. The riders had likely seen him already.

Jon considered turning and fleeing in the direction from which he had come, but that would only tip them off that he was a man on the run from something. The Twelve were arranged across the road in two rows of six. No his best course would be to hold his path and hope that the group of soldiers just passed him by.

He briefly wondered if it was the forces of the assassin.

Jon slowed his horse and bowed his head, making every effort to appear the humble downcast farmer. He had nothing to fear from these soldiers, they had no reason to harm him, he was just another man, just another farmer. He made certain the cloak covered the pommel of his sword. The Twelve kept coming, they showed no sign of slowing down.

'Why would they?' Jon said to himself 'they have a job to do' he loosened his sword, made sure it was ready for a fight.

He was close enough to the castle now to make out individual turrets and buildings. The old keep, the first and second walls, the great hall and the tower that overlooked the training grounds were all visible now, towering monuments of stone, A castle for the King of Winter, now despoiled by the Bolton's.

The twelve reigned the horses in twenty paces from him, they held themselves proudly, confident in their abilities but also with a sense of weariness that seemed to afflict all of the few travellers that Jon had seen. A look that said they had been beaten down by the world.

Two of the soldiers slowly trotted away from the main group towards him. They were hard men, seasoned but not cruel.

"Fine morning friend." The first said to him as they drew level. Jon made sure to hide as much of his face as possible in the shadows of the cloak.

"So it is" he replied levelly, neither aggressive nor defensive.

The second chuckled "I was beginning to think that I'd never see the sun again. Thought it was buried behind all them snow clouds."

Jon allowed himself a small smile that never reached his shadowed eyes "You aren't the only one" Jon paused and pointed towards the blotched field "Some sort of Battle?" He inquired.

"Ay" Replied the first "Stannis Baratheon's forces, twasn't an evenly matched battle, the bastard had no mounted cavalry or siege engines, but even so I lost a lot of good men to that piece of shit." He spat onto the stones.

"I'm sorry to hear that" Jon replied "Good men are hard to come by these days"

The second coughed impatiently and the first leaned in to Jon and said "I'm sorry friend, I know it's cold but Lord Ramsay wants us checkin the faces of every traveller on the roads, so I'm going to have to ask you to show us yer face."

"Who are you looking for?" Jon asked without lowering the cloak, his heart began to pound, a beating drum in his chest. There was only one man Ramsay Bolton would be looking for now that Stannis was defeated, only one man left who could challenge his claim to the throne.

The first spoke more carefully, the friendliness now gone from his voice "Some deserter from the Nights Watch, Goes by the name Jon Sno-"

He got not further as Jon drew his sword and slashed his throat in one clean motion. The soldier plummeted off his horse clutching at the ruined bloody mess of his windpipe. Jon turned on the second before his axe was even fully raised. He reversed the slicing cut and plunged the sword straight through the second man's chest. It made a terrible ripping sound as it crunched through his torso. He fell forward in his saddle.

Jon heard the distinct sound of hard steel being drawn from a scabbard. He wheeled his horse around to find that the other ten soldiers had drawn their weapons, he spotted short spears and rust specked swords. They quickly fanned out to either side forming a semicircle of armed men that stood in front of him. They eyed him carefully, mindful of the length of wicked steel that shone with reflected light and dark red blood. Jon glanced down at the men he had killed, they had seemed good men, loyal. Following orders even though they'd much rather be drinking with their mates or huddling by a fire… and he had killed them.

Jon eyed them back. He threw off his cloak and felt the cold air blast his face, he looked at each of the soldiers that now surrounded him. Some were hard, other green. Some were young, others old. Some wore weary acceptance of bloodshed at the hopelessly outmatched fight, others had eyes that shone in anticipation at the coming battle. A wolf howled in the distance. The horse's whickered nervously, their snouts produced small explosions of steamy air, some of the soldiers turned to look for the howl.

Jon merely sighed internally at more unavoidable conflict, he wondered how many would die here today, if he'd be one of them. How many children would never see their fathers again after today? 'Or boys there loves?' his voice questioned. 'Fine' he snapped at the voice in those moments that dragged into an eternity.

'Fine, I love her, but what fucking good has it done? She probably hates me for trying to spare her!'

'You should have had her when you had the chance, one night would have made no difference, just one perfect night of two stupid drunk youths who forgot themselves, forgot all the inevitability, all the hardships, the class politics, forgot trying to spare each other future pains and simply focused on living in the moment, living in a moment that will never come again. You could have had it, had her, but you denied her out of your own contrived pessimism, your refusal to believe that there isn't a chance, not one chance that there is some sort of future for you.' The voice shouted at him, he realised he was shouting at himself.

'I've made my choices, I couldn't have her then, and no matter how much I want to I can't have her now. I don't believe there is a chance because there isn't. Even if by some divine intervention we defeat the walkers, all we'll do is postpone the inevitable. We'll start wiping ourselves out if the Others don't, fighting over the next trivial bullshit. How many people will die here today? How many deserve it? How many will survive and go on to kill others, to tear apart other families, to start new wars?' He shouted back at himself. All this in less than a second.

Then Jon remembered a place where there was no war or pessimism or hardship. No politics or deathly cold or fighting. He knew that she would find him there one day, that she would join him in those meadows under that clear blue sky, lie with him in the woods next to the bubbling stream. The children would laugh as they picked strawberries under the baking sun. He knew he would find his family there, his brothers laughing in the tavern or sweating over chores, his father running the Inn, they would be reunited and the boys of old would roam the woods once more. He knew he would wake up every day with a smile and the knowledge that today could be better than yesterday. Wake up next to her.

He realised that he had been wrong. This world of cruelty and hardship could not be the real world, it could not be all humanity was capable of. He had touched the village through dreams but in that moment, facing down ten soldiers he knew something that he wished he had known his whole life.

He whispered to himself "This world is the dream and I'm ready to wake up."

A white shadow streaked across the snow towards the horses. 'One last time old friend?' he mentally called to the wolf.

Then he faced the soldiers and charged.

* * *

Daenerys peered ahead. Some sort of commotion had happened on the road. She saw the dark silhouettes of horses lying dead on the ground. The sun had moved past its peak and was beginning its descent. Its glare made the figures impossible to identify. But the rays glinted off bared steel. The commotion had been recent.

"Your Grace we should be caref-" Ser Barristan began, but she was already gone, she rode forward at breakneck pace, the country side flashing and blurring around her. Pounding hooves behind her told her that her soldiers rode forward with her. She knew it had to be him. She had to get there, had to help him.

She smelt blood as she approached. She could make out crumpled figures on the ground. Bolton colours.

The few mounted figures left noticed her approach. "Shit" one shouted loudly, then they wheeled their horses around and fled towards Winterfell.

Where was he? He would not flee from her. She swung off the horses. Hit the ground hard but barely notice. She looked around for him but she could not see him standing anywhere. Then, she forced herself to look down, to look at the bodies.

That one wore Bolton colours, that wasn't his face, that one was bald. Not him, not him.

Then she saw him. He had lay with his head against a tree, eyes closed. He could have been sleeping if there hadn't been a spear through his chest, or his stomach did not bleed from a myriad of deep stab wounds. The trail of blood had led right to him. In the silence that suddenly surrounded her, she knew he had stopped breathing, she knew he was gone.

Then she noticed his head, his hair was the black mass of curls he'd always had, but something was wrong, something had changed. At first she could not place it. Then she saw it.

Just above his temple was a single small lock of grey silvery hair.

 **And so we reach the end of what I'm tentatively calling 'Part 1' or 'Act 1'. This either marks the halfway point of the story or the end of Act 1 of 3. Let me know if you enjoyed this chapter and if you have any concerns/ suggestions for the future.**


	17. Chapter 17

They had found the Wolf a few metres from Snows body. It was crisscrossed with slashes and cuts, however it had been an axe blow to the side that had ultimately killed the majestic beast. Its pure white coat had been stained red by blood both Wolf and human. It had followed its master until the very end.

She felt numb as she ordered that his body be cleaned and carried with them until they set camp. This was not how it was supposed to happen. She had wanted to shout at him, scream at him, make him feel as she had felt, but now she couldn't. He was dead, he no longer cared, she wondered if he ever had. She left the other corpses where they had fallen. She thought distantly that it must have been a brutal fight, a violent final stand, too bad the only witnesses were either fled or dead.

They rode in silence throughout the day. Back towards the forest where the tree's would hide them from the eyes of Winterfell. Eyes that had watched as Jon Snow had died a few miles from his home, a home that he would never see again.

The land was cloaked in a deathly silence as they plodded on. The body lay on a stretcher strung between two horses. She half expected him to just sit up for a while, but he never did.

Barristan said something to her but she didn't hear it, the silence drowned out the entire world, even the animals held their sound. The only noise was the wind whistling across the desolate landscape as the light turned a bleak orange, then red, then a deepening black darkness.

By the time they set up camp in a clearing, the world was covered by the blanket of night. The stars blazed above but it did not matter to her. The colours seemed muted and even the cold seemed far away. This was not how it was supposed to be.

She did not know what time it was when she found herself standing over his body, she did not even know whose tent she was in. She knew she should cry, but the tears felt frozen in her eyes, she couldn't really feel anything at the moment. They had placed him atop a wooden legged table and covered him up to the chin with a blanket, as if it still mattered that he keep warm, as if he felt anything now. As if in a few days his body would not ripen, rot and return to the Earth. Skin and flesh slowly decomposing as the blood turned cold in his veins, and a lack of circulation caused him to swell.

She lost track of time as she stood there. After a while she stopped seeing the body, instead her mind dove into the memories she had of him most now felt like opportunities that had been lost, she pondered all the things she should have done, should have said. After a while she realised she was crying, the tears dripped down her face, but still she felt far away. She did not sob or hunch over and cry out in despair, rather she merely stood there straight backed as they ran down her face.

She didn't even flinch when she felt a cold, impassive gaze on her back. She closed her eyes and though she could not even hear him breathe, she knew the presence that stood at the entrance to the tent. The presence that stood a mere three feet from her back, it no longer tormented her as it once had.

"I couldn't save him" She said aloud.

Her voice was thick and on the brink of cracking. She did not know why she spoke, but she could not die in this all-encompassing silence.

"I thought I could, I thought that if I was powerful enough, quick enough, strong enough, I could do anything, overcome any obstacle"

The presence was still there. Its gaze bored into her, uncaring and dark, but still she did not feel a blade in her throat.

"He kept telling me how there was no hope, no future and I didn't believe him because it… it didn't seem possible that all of this was for nothing. All the hardship, all the struggles and pain, I couldn't comprehend how it could mean nothing in the end. Most of us style ourselves as the heroes of our own stories, we expect to accomplish something, to make our mark on the endless turning wheel of time…"

She understood. Her voice became a choked whisper.

"but the wheel doesn't care, it just turns on. We think ourselves heroes, but how many of us die like heroes? Most die like any other man"

She looked at the body.

"Heroes don't die like this, the story can't end like this. How can he just die in a pointless skirmish with ordinary soldiers a few miles from his home?" Her voice was filled with questioning. Asking a question that had no answer.

"I know now what he saw, why he lost hope. He knew our time was coming, he knew that this cycle of violence and conflict, revenge and retribution had to be ended by something. I think he saw the Others as a sort of reckoning, a reckoning for all the horror we do commit upon each other. He didn't want to stop them, he didn't want to preserve a race that only seems intent on harming each other…"

She trailed off, as the gaze vanished. Slowly she turned to face the tent flap… and saw only the night beyond. The braziers in the tent provided some light, but beyond the flap an infinity of darkness was all that greeted her gaze, darkness she realised she was seeing for the first time.

He was gone, the assassin had left her alive. She did not know why. Maybe he had seen that a part of her had already died.

Then she did sob. Fell to her knees before his body and cried bitter, bitter tears at the unfairness of it all. She finally cried at, not only him, but all the world had taken from her.

And the wind whistled by without a care.

 **So these Authors notes will be slightly longer.**

 **Firstly I just wanted to say thanks for all the attention this story has gotten. The constructive criticism and support is appreciated so keep those reviews coming.**

 **Secondly, this chapter marks the official beginning of Part 2/Act 2 of this story.**

 **I also just wanted to elaborate on some of my inspirations/ reasons for this story:**

 **This story is heavily inspired by the 2005 Cormac McCarthy novel and the 2007 Coen Brothers film of the same name: No Country for Old Men. It's both a fascinating novel and film that is well worth the watch. The themes and characters are intriguing and I drew a lot of inspiration from the exploration of the concepts of fate, moral decline, pessimism and nihilism that are explored.**

 **I also drew inspiration from Alfonso Cuaron's 'Children of Men' and 2017's 'Logan' for their depiction of a 'pre-apocalypse' world. A notion that I find extremely interesting and worth exploring.**

 **What I've tried to do with this story (and generally what I've tried to do with my other ASOIF stories as well) Is write something different, something that hasn't been done before. What interested me was a review on one of my other ASOIF stories that merely commented on how the story was 'different' and that was extremely gratifying as I realised that I had written something that, while perhaps not the most mind blowing piece of fiction ever, had grabbed someone's attention and given them something different to other fics and it is that sort of reaction that has inspired me to write stories that deal with different themes and ideas to other stories in ASOIF community.**

 **All in all, I'm still enjoying writing this story and I hope you're enjoying reading it. So until next time Cheers.**


	18. Chapter 18

Winterfell stood as a dark bastion against the blizzard that raged in the night. Ramsay briefly wondered about what still moved against him out there in the darkness, if anything did. Stannis was defeated, his host smashed below the walls of the castle that had watched silently as his army was slain. Ramsay had plenty of pickings from the survivors, but like a fine wine he savoured them. He would not break them straight away, but rather take his time, give them hope then snatch it away until they were his. He lived for that one moment when they broke fully, when all resolve finally died. From the window of his chambers he looked out at the snow storm that pummelled the walls.

Just yesterday he had learned from the bloodied bruised survivors of a skirmish that Jon Snow had been slain a mere three miles from the castle, the final living sun of Ned Stark, was dead. If only Ramsay could have seen his eyes as the light left them, as he realised that he would never see his home again. No, not Snow's home, not anymore. He liked Winterfell, enjoyed its secrets and history, he would stay here, make it his official seat, he enjoyed using the walls to torment his prey. He had locked a man in the crypts for four days, and when he had come out, he had anything but sane, he didn't even respond to pain anymore, no matter how much Ramsay applied.

Once the Targaryen Queen was dead he would rule completely unopposed, and he had seen to her demise already. The question of the supposed dragons concerned him though, he had heard plenty of rumours of giant scaly flying beasts ranging over the lands, but he would face that problem if and when it arose, besides he had no doubt that the Lannister's would be only too willing to supply him with the men and tools necessary to secure the North for them.

He had to admit though, he was disappointed in the assassin, it was his men who had killed Snow not him, perhaps he was just a man after all, as fallible as the rest of them. He felt foolish now for jumping at the shadows, but for Colch he would still have his revenge on the man, he wondered if the screws or the flaying knife would cause him more pain. He wondered what he would look like. A dastardly cutthroat with a glint in his eye, or an old soldier type tired and world weary, or perhaps one of those faceless men all religious fervour over death.

He had never understood that, death was not a gift, it was defeat, if you were dead, and it meant you could no longer feel pain. And if you couldn't feel pain were you even truly alive? As Ramsay saw it life was just a protracted exercise in pain. He tortured because he knew that in the moment before the dogs ripped their throats out, the instant before their bodies gave way into oblivion, in that second before death, that was when his victims felt most alive. They could see every shade of every colour, could play a million conversations through their minds in a heartbeat. The closer to death they were, the more life was in them, even if he taken their fingers or limbs, even if he had maimed and disfigured them they were Gods in that second before the End.

Life would've been perfect then, his opposition dead or doomed, but his favourite plaything had escaped during the battle. Reek was interesting, he had torn the man down and rebuilt him. To him it was far more artful than anything the greatest painter or finest musician could produce. To him it had been an exquisite achievement to destroy the essence of someone so absolutely, so completely and rebuild that empty shell as his own monument, his own work was fascinating to him. However considering that Reek had fled, there was obviously a flaw in his masterpiece. Ramsay wondered if he could recreate the process, but then he realised something.

All the most memorable masterpieces are flawed in some way. Perfection simply can't be found and trying to recreate the work would only produce cheap imitations. No, Reek would stay as his greatest achievement. He doubted that the fools that surrounded him understood the magnitude of what he had accomplished, the pure brilliance in what he had done. To him pain was not merely an emotion, no, pain and its consequences were art and in this area he was indeed a skilled artisan.

All this flickered across his mind as he surveyed the storm hammering his windows, any travellers caught in the storm would likely find themselves lacking a few toes in the morning. He decided to relieve himself before settling in for the night. He looked around the bathroom as he pissed. This room had once belonged to Ned Stark, he had taken special care to desecrate it in every possible way. The hot water bubbling through the walls gave the room a humidity that he enjoyed.

He returned to the bedchamber, and in the corner of the room, the furthest from the light generated by the candles, in one of the fine leather backed chairs sat a man.

Ramsay swallowed, he considered calling for help but the man had no reason to kill him, he had had no reason to kill Colch either though. Carefully making sure he did nothing that could be considered aggressive, he stood in the centre of the room and faced the man. His face was obscured somewhat by the shadows, but what Ramsay could see of it looked remarkably… ordinary. The only thing that gave anything away was The Man's gaze. It set Ramsay on edge.

"The contract is fulfilled" The Man said in a strange accent that Ramsay could not place.

Ramsay looked at him puzzled 'is he making some sort of joke?' he questioned himself. Slowly he said

"Yes, Snow is dead, but my men killed him not you, are you saying that you have dealt with the Targaryen girl?"

"She has changed, she is not the same person you contracted me to kill. I will not kill her for the person she was, if you want her dead take out a new contract." This he said without emotion, greed or jest. He merely stated it as if explaining to a child in that odd drawl.

Ramsay put anger and threat in his voice "I contracted you to kill her and you _will_ kill her."

The Man gave no indication of having heard the threat "The person who she was is dead, as I said before, if you want her dead" he paused "Take out a new contract."

Ramsay sneered at him then "That doesn't even make any sense, I haven't paid you for the first contract, now I take out a new one? What stops me from using the old one, changing a letter and calling it a new contract?" Despite The Man's strangeness Ramsay found it difficult to comprehend this nonsense.

"Nothing, but the old contract is now invalid." The Man replied simply.

Ramsay had had enough. He had no idea how this stranger had snuck into his room but he had no wish to play the man's stupid games, he couldn't stand fools. 'He's just a hired killer, nothing more'

"You know my father spoke highly of you, but now that I see you, you're just a cutthroat who's probably insane." He taunted him, still The Man sat there impassively.

"I have a question for you, Assassin… no one knows your name, where you come from, how you speak, where you go or how you work. Yet they're all shit scared of you, but you're just some paid killer. Who are you and what is so special about you?" He was angry, he was not afraid of that stare, he was not Afraid of the empty nothingness behind those eyes.

A silence hung in the air, the only sound the snow beating the windows with salvo after salve of flakes.

Then The Man spoke.

"You know I have every reason to kill you. You spread the description of Jon Snow, hoping someone would get him… but he was my target, the most interesting man I've hunted in years, and you took that opportunity from me" there was a hardness behind that cold voice now "You're just like the man who contracted me, obsessed with where I'm from, where I'm going, where I've been, yet you don't look at yourself." His voice was low.

"Where did you come from? A castle, or maybe a farm, or maybe a village, but does that matter? All your choices, everything you've experienced, all the places you've come from have shaped you into the man that made the decisions that led you to this room at this very moment." He looked Ramsay in the eyes and paused

"Just as your man's decisions led him to that room where he died."

When that gaze found his eyes Ramsay felt his skin crawl, something he hadn't felt in years if ever.

"He didn't just die, you killed him." Ramsay said slowly, trying to force anger into his voice.

"Perhaps, but if he was not meant to die, would he have been in that room asking the questions that he did?" The Man made it sound like a question but Ramsay knew it was not.

He swallowed again, heavier this time, slowly he felt his hand round his back for his belt knife. He wondered if he could make the throw.

Ramsay withdrew the knife in one motion.

They found the body the next morning, a single throwing knife buried up to the hilt in his skull. Eyes that had once glowed bright with sadistic urges were now as ordinary as any other mans. There had been no final moment for him, no slowing of time as his life flashed before him. The colours had not been stronger and the flames had not glowed brighter.

Only a flash of metal in the candle light.

 **So this was quite an interesting chapter to write. I enjoyed getting into Ramsay's psyche and sort of wondering about what drives him and what such an 'evil' character thinks about. So as per usual:**

 **Reviews, suggestions, comments, criticism. Drop a review and let me know.**


	19. Chapter 19

_The Man left Winterfell unnoticed before the fighting started. Before the Bolton banner men, minor lords and levies turned on each other. Without fear of Ramsay to keep them in check, they had all tried to seize the castle the night after their 'lord' had been murdered. He rode away as the castle belched black smoke behind him, the distant sound of steel clanging on steel could be heard as he plodded along the road._

Daenerys stood in the yard and surveyed the carnage that surrounded her. The Castle had been set on fire in the confusion. Bodies littered the grounds. Strewn over railings or crumpled in the mud, there was no one left to bury the dead. They had slain each other almost down to the man, those who were not slain had fled the disaster. Her small party had moved into the castle unopposed.

Ser Barristan stood beside her, he too had been awfully quiet since Jon Snows death.

"Your Grace, it appears that Winterfell is yours."

"Mine?" She questioned "There's nothing left of it, why would I want to rule over scorched ruins and bodies?"

"It offers both a distinct tactical advantage and could go a long way in securing alliances with the Northern houses… if that is indeed your plan." He droned on, his heart didn't sound in it.

"Will they even support me?" she turned to him "I'm an outlander to them, I have no claim to these lands."

"Quite frankly your Grace, there's no one else left. The Starks, now the Bolton's are gone. I suppose Whitehabour or Karhold could try stake a claim but their forces are weak and scattered neither hold the castle for long. In two weeks your forces will arrive. Your army is the largest trained force in the region" almost as an afterthought "and you have dragons. Send word to your forces and they can be here in three weeks, then the North is yours."

"So, Ser Barristan would you recommend that we wait here amongst the corpses?" She challenged him, she didn't want to stay here. She didn't want to be anywhere near these stoic uncaring walls. The windows that locked down on her like gaping eye sockets, the doorways that stood open like dark ravenous mouths.

Ser Barristan moved closer to her and spoke softly.

"Your Grace, I realise that you are still upset, however, I must implore you to consider this… tactically. This… mess is in fact a stroke of good luck. The Bolton's are no longer a threat, Stannis has been defeated. The North is yours for the taking. All you have to do is take it." _The Starks are gone too._ He wisely left that thought unspoken.

She thought she would feel some sort of elation, some sort of sense of triumph at being another step down the road to her goal. What had once been her goal anyway, she felt lost but she didn't know what else to do. She couldn't go back to Essos. She had to push forward.

'If I look back I'm lost'

 _They had buried him in the crypts of Winterfell that afternoon. She hadn't even watched as his corpses was wrapped and placed in the darkness. Instead she had just walked away from the castle, walked and walked until her legs burnt. She would not go down into that abyss. Not watch him be sealed away in that dark prison. Locked in down there forever._

 _She denied a guard, but they had insisted, she had threatened them with death. She needed to be alone._

 _He had spared her. The man who had left nothing but death in his wake had let her live. Why? Why was she always asking that? Why did nothing make sense anymore? She had played the game for years, defeated her enemies, created lifelong allies and toppled cities. It had seemed easier then. What had happened?_

 _She walked until her legs burned, until the forest surrounded her with that silence that filled her with loneliness. The wind tried to speak then, its wordless gust made no sense to her either. She looked North then towards the Wall. The clouds formed an impenetrable white barrier on the northern horizon. She wondered when they would overrun it. She wondered when she had started thinking like Jon Snow._

 _She had stalked away from her followers and left them to bury a man none of them had ever had ever really known, aside from what little she had told them of him. Was she behaving in a way befit of a Queen? No she wasn't, but at that moment surrounded by the cursed snow and the voices of the wind she didn't care. She whispered a farewell to him. The trees were the only ones who heard. From their dark oaken gaze she didn't know if they approved of her. An outlander, an invader in this land whispering a soft goodbye to one of their own._

 _She didn't care about whether they approved either. She returned to the castle then._

The Man surveyed the city of Kings landing from the distant hilltop. The snows had begun to fall here too, they were lighter but a man could still die in this cold if he was careless. The journey had taken him the rest of the month to make, nearly three weeks, the snows had seemingly followed him from the North, nearly every day a blizzard had assaulted him, but he pushed on, just like he always had.

The days were now noticeably short for this early in winter. He briefly wondered what was happening at the Wall, if it had fallen, if the legions of the dead marched on the few black brothers left, if the end times had come but, it didn't matter to those in the city he now surveyed. The nobles would play their game till the grave took them. Even now, even when the evidence was irrefutable that something was wrong with this world they refuse to see the warning signs. The throne was all that mattered to them. Perhaps they were what was wrong with this world.

Nobles very rarely cared for anything except money, sex and power. Nobles very seldom changed…. except for her, she had changed as a result of the Crow who was now dead. Interesting.

Very few noticed as, a strange man, with a strange accent slipped into the city through the Mud gate.

 **So, the story moves South! Just a quick note on which characters are alive/ dead and where we are in the greater ASOIF story at this point. I'm sort of going off the end of ADWD PT2 and the end of Season five of the show, however, you'll learn which characters are where, as the story progresses. So as usual: comments, suggestions etc I want to hear them, so drop a review if you've got the time!**


	20. Chapter 20

Lightening lanced into the Blackwater. Each white bolt an artillery strike into the bay. Every electrical arc of pure destructive power caused a distant rumbling boom that sounded in the distance. The black clouds spewed forth an endless torrent of volleys of lights. Each flash lit up the darkness of night. Explosions of white light burst through the windows, casting shadows that faded in an instant.

"I understand that you're a man who's very good at what you do?" Came Qyburn's soft reedy voice. The room held no candles, no light with which to illuminate the two figures. It suited Qyburn's shadowy ways, and The Man respected that, even if he did not respect Qyburn himself.

"Who is the target?"

"Still a man of few words I see. Not target, targets. Two, but they're both in the same place if that helps"

"It makes no difference where they are."

Qyburn gave a small smile.

"Tell me, do you have any problem with… doing business in a place of worship?"

The Man said nothing.

"I thought not."

"Do you have the contract ready?"

"Yes, all the details are in this" he slid an envelope across the table towards The Man "I'm sure you'll find the compensation… more than fair."

The Man didn't even nod. He merely removed it and signed, before sliding it back in.

"Ah before you go, we've heard… troubling reports from up North, would you happen to know anything about what's going on up there? We've had conflicting information and the snows have all but destroyed communication." Qyburn knew it was dangerous to ask anything of him, but what he had heard had unsettled him, and it took quite a lot to trouble a man who had done the things he had.

"Depends."

"Depends on what exactly?"

"Depends on what you consider troubling."

Qyburn allowed himself another small smile. He had known it was pointless, but he had tried anyway.

The Man took the envelope and left, as another cracking explosion echoed over the city. The storm was bearing down on them all.

* * *

The candles were still lit in the Great Sept of Baelor, even at the late hour. At least a dozen flames glowed beneath the statues of each of the Seven. They cast a feeble, flickering light on the chiselled likeness of the gods, well as near as man could understand the true divinity of the likeness of the gods.

As the days grew darker and man more drenched in copious sin, The High Sparrow often found himself deep in prayer. He knelt not at any one alter but in the centre of the Seven Pointed star. His prayer did not contain anything as worldly as words or coherence, but rather a deep reflection, a searching of the soul for answers, a blank canvas of his mind that he waited the gods to paint with their infinite wisdom… but in these dark times, their will had become murkier and murkier. Harder to interpret, the true message often lost. His mortal mind obscured their true meaning and contorted the canvas into something it was not. He had to search harder and harder to find the truth amongst the lies.

Perhaps the gods were punishing them all? Punishing the world for the many sins it had yet to repent, shrouding mankind in the ever growing darkness in the hope that they could see through the bleakness, see the light in the blackness. The light that was faith in the gods. The High Sparrow had seen too much sin to think that the gods were happy with this world.

False deities, murder, corruption, greed, lust, sodomy, incest. The gods could not allow it, would not allow it. He knew that if man did not change his ways the gods would be forced to scourge the world, to cut off the gangrenous limb to save the rest of the body. Dark times indeed lay ahead.

So deep in his contemplation, The High Sparrow felt no need to eat or drink, the gods sustained. Here in this grand place of worship he could feel their will, their very essence. A shinning brilliance that shone magnificently just outside of his peripheral vision. He knew that if he looked upon that glorious light, that if basked in the magnificence of their divinity, his soul would be so enthralled that it would leave this tainted mortal flesh and spend an eternity in awe.

A shadow passed across the light, across his mind, rousing him from his deep contemplation. He was not alone. He rose from his prayer without fear, he knew that the gods had their plan for him. He had faced dark entities before, but the presence was... different somehow, this was no ordinary cutthroat.

He opened his eyes and peered around the Sept. Beyond the candlelight that illuminated each god, there were only deep pools of shadow. Not even the flashes of light from the oncoming storm revealed where the figure hid the darkness. The Sparrow decided to spoke calmly.

"I know the Queen sent you to ki-"

* * *

Margaery Tyrell shivered in her tiny cell, it was dark and oh so cold. Each breath sent another puff of vapour into the black, uncaring stone wall. She had only a single tattered woollen blanket to keep herself warm. The gods provided her with no warmth. She could not sleep, she was too attuned to their tactic now, the constant demands of confession. Just as she drifted off to sleep they would be standing there, demanding she confess her sins. Her under eyes were dark and her once glossy combed hair was dishevelled and tangled. Her body bore the marks of her conditions. Bites and bruises marked her flesh more than any crime she had ever committed.

She would have given up long ago, but she had a plan. Schemes within schemes, she had learnt from the best and she had experience in playing the game. She would endure this nightmare… for now, but one day they would all see that the North weren't the only ones that remembered, but she had to put that aside for now and accept the reality of what surrounded h…

The door swung open and the septa stood in the doorway. Margaery knew the routine by now, she had had plenty of practice.

"Confe-"

Margaery heard an awful piercing sound. She look up to the Septa to see her standing there as she had known she would, but something was wrong. Her mouth was open yet her tongue seemed stran… it wasn't her tongue, she realized with horror, instead a short pin like blade stuck out slightly through the Septa's parted lips. The Septa: Her captor, her tormenter, the thing she had feared most until this moment, made a strange gargling noise in the back of her throat, then twitched. Then her assailant smoothly withdrew the blade, and the Septa crumpled to the floor in a heap, blood spreading from the back of her neck.

Margaery scrambled onto all floors and flung herself against the far wall of the tiny cell, as far away from the door as possible. The tiny window in the cell offered a sliver of light during every flash, but the assailant stood in the darkness beyond the doorway.

She felt panic, her breath came quickly. High Garden, the common folk, they wouldn't stand for this. She was the Queen! They loved her. She couldn't die like this. Not in a dirty cell, clad only in stinking rags, she had to do what she knew how to do well. Think on her feet, think quickly.

"I don't care how much Cersei is paying you" She shouted hurriedly "I'll double it, triple it. I'll make you powerful and rich, I can raise you to lord. I can do anything, I am the Que-"

* * *

As The Man moved through the gloom of the alleys of the city, he ignored the shouts and lights of taverns. He dodged the still glowing lanterns of every house of ill reputable business in the squalor filled city.

The inky black clouds were an indication that the storm would soon fall upon the city. Every flash of lightning was closer, louder. The Man felt very little for the kills, the contract had in fact been exceedingly simple, almost too easy.

It was not the first Queen he had killed, it would likely not be the last either. She hadn't really looked the part of a Queen but she had certainly acted it, thinking she could bribe him with land or gold. It just went to prove that no matter what clothes nobles wore, they were still nobles.

The storm rumbled more violently and the wind gusted nervously. Soon it would break over the city. Soon.


	21. Chapter 21

When The Man returned to the Red Keep, it was not Qyburn he found waiting for him in the dimly lit chamber. For one the chamber was now lit up, bright as day and it was the Queen mother who sat in the high-backed lacquered chair before him. The White cloaked guards flanking the doorway did not even look at The Man as he walked in. They probably regarded a mere cut throat as below their station.

The Queen was clad in a thick high necked grey gown that pooled around her feet. The Man immediately noticed that the gown was exquisitely tailored, every stich carefully placed. Silver chains and a single string of pearls adorned her neck. She studied him over her wine glass, which she sipped as he approached.

"Leave us" She dismissed the guards with a casual wave of her hand. The Man noticed that she was making every effort to look completely at ease. He stopped a few feet from the chair and merely looked at her.

Once the heavy oaken door shut firmly behind them she spoke.

"They are both already dead?" She asked.

"You already knew, else you would not be here waiting."

She paused to once again sip her wine. She let the silence hang in the air as she swirled the dark red liquid in her cup before taking another agonisingly slow sip. The Man saw the message very clearly. She was the Queen, and he would wait until she was ready to speak. She held the power here… or at least that's what she wanted to believe. In his experience those who tried to display that they held power actually held a lot less than they liked to believe.

"Most impressive I must say, in a single night you've done more in the shadows than I could do in the public domain for months, years even." She studied him with her piercing green eyes approvingly.

He assumed the flattery was meant to impressive him. He said nothing in reply.

"I have more enemies than just Margaery Tyrell and the High Sparrow, enemies that I need to dispose of if my son is to rule safely, how would you like to work for me on a more permanent basis?"

"The contract is fulfilled" He slid the envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table in front of her "If you want someone else dead, then take out another contract."

Her eyes glittered with the merest hint of danger, this was not what she had meant.

"I fear you misunderstood. I was thinking something more along the lines of 'permanent employment' in my service."

"No"

She looked directly at him then, eyes glowing bright with a barely hidden fire.

"I'm sorry, I believe that I heard you wrong. I thought I heard you deny to enter my service." She raised an eyebrow threateningly.

"You heard right."

She drew herself up too her full height in the chair.

"You will do as I command, I am the Quee-"

"You know that you're the second person to say that to me tonight" His blank stare gave her the answer as to who had told him that, as if there was any doubt.

Making an effort to compose herself she spoke icily "This is my Kingdom, I rule these lands, you _will_ do as I say."

"Why? Because you think that you're better than everyone else? That your position somehow grants you dominion over others? Do you think that because you are a Queen that you will not die as easily as other men?" He paused. His discontenting gaze never wavering from its cold study of her.

"You acted rashly tonight. Your choices have led you here and now you must face the consequences of your actions." It was not a threat but a statement a certainty that the Queen would face the fallout of her decisions.

"If you do not take my very generous offer" her eyes narrowed at him "I'm sure we can find a more suitable place for that head of yours, perhaps atop a spike? In fact I could call my guards in this instant and have you killed."

Flattery to threats in a few minutes. The first tell-tale 'Pings' of raindrops could be heard in the silence that followed.

"Then do it. Call them. Cry for help… and accept the consequences." The voice was as cold and as uncaring as the ocean. An infinity of impartial waves, which would smash any ship, whether a rundown fisherman's barge or a grand galley, amongst the rocks and feel nothing for it.

She tried not to sneer at him, a commoner questioning her! Threatening Her! She felt disgusted at the black cloaked figure who stood before her, but still, she did not shout for help. That voice, that gaze so… impassive and uncaringly neutral. Death meant nothing to him, whether it was hers or his he would accept it and look out of those cold, dark eyes until the end, probably even beyond that.

"Get out" she said softly "this meeting is at an end."

The Man didn't even nod. He simply turned and left, the rain spattering his cloak with tiny droplets as soon as he walked out of the room. It was only sometime after he had gone that the Queen realised that he had not even taken his payment.

* * *

"Your man tried to threaten me." Qyburn stood in front of her. Her glass of wine had long since been emptied.

"I do apologise Your Grace" came the soft reedy voice, he had feared something like this would happen, but from what he had gathered about how Cersei had behaved, he was glad she was still alive at all "but, he is not like other men and he is certainly not my man."

She leaned forward, her eyes still sparkled with anger, she had been shaken and she hated being shaken.

"Then who is he? Who does he work for?"

"I don't know" Qyburn replied apologetically "From what I've seen nobody knows."

"But you said that you met him before?"

"Yes Your Grace but that was when I was still in the Citadel."

"Tell me." She said simply.

"I only met him once before tonight" She looked at him questioningly "I needed someone dead, someone important and… through my contacts I learned of a man who would take any contract, kill anybody."

He thought back to their first meeting, how… unnerved the man had made him feel.

"He took the contract and sure enough they found the body the next day, lying in a pool of blood in his apartments, he had had his throat garrotted with a bowstring."

Qyburn remembered the body. The look of abject terror on his face he had worn in death as he realised that he could not escape or avoid his death. He was no stranger to death or horror, but that final look of terror that went far beyond human comprehension of fear had… no. It still disturbed him to this day.

"Well who is he, someone must know?"

"I'm afraid Your Grace, that, no, nobody knows who he is, or where he came from or why he has the accent that he does, he simply seems to appear and disappear at will, never staying in the same place always moving around. Leaving death in his wake. I looked into him for a long time after I made use of his services, but after years of searching I found nothing, not even a name. Even others who have made use of his talents know next to nothing about him."

"Well how did you find him this time?" She was growing more and more irritated at the lack of answers.

"My birds reported that a Guard had been found in a back alley with a hole in his temple, a hole shaped as if a large pin had been thrust into his head. Word had it that the guard liked to stop travellers, demand money and beat them if they refused. Now a corrupt Guard being found dead with an unusual wound, is in itself nothing too out of the ordinary, but a few days later I got word that the leader of a smuggling ring had been found dead in his room… garrotted by a bowstring. Then I knew he was here. Your Grace, you asked me to identify a solution to our 'two problems' and he was the perfect solution to those problems. I knew that if I hired him, the Tyrell Girl and the High Sparrow would be dead in a matter of hours and now they are."

"I want him dead."

Qyburn tried not to laugh at the ridiculous nature of the statement. His eyes widened in shock instead.

"Why is that Your Grace?"

She gaze a cool glare, her will was not to be questioned

"He questioned me then threatened me. Besides he knows too much, if he speaks it could put us all on the executioner's block, so I want him gone." She said regally and with the coolness of the power afforded by being royalty.

However, they both knew that the strange assassin would not say anything about the murders. Qyburn knew the true reason why the Queen wanted him gone. She had found something she was scared of. He didn't dare voice the thought, but he knew that anything that scared Cersei Lannister was a threat to her and threats could not be tolerated.

He nodded and tried to keep from swallowing nervously.

"Very well Your Grace, I'll find someone to do it." He hoped he had not just signed his own death warrant. Then the storm fell on the city. The wind howled mournfully and the few droplets became an endless volley of thick drops. Splattering and slicking the ground with every impact.

* * *

They found the High Sparrows body in the morning, even though the storm still raged over Kings Landing, it did not take long for the riots to begin.

 **So let me know what you think of how the story is going. Don't forget to drop a review.**


	22. Chapter 22

The City burned. Thick black smoke rose into the heavens and met thick black cloud. The third day of the riots had proved as bloody as the previous two. Any accused of being either loyal to the Queen or not worthy in the eyes of the gods had met violent ends.

The bodies of those who had been hung by the mob swung in the gusts. Many others had not been so lucky. The gutters ran red. The intensity of the storm might have dissuaded a less motivated crowd, but those who mourned the High Sparrow were not so easily cowed. The fires caused by the unrest leapt as high as mountains, but the driving rain soon reduced it to sodden rubble. No one was under any illusion as to who had taken their beloved Sparrow from them, and the few who were, were all too happy to pillage anyway.

Phalanxes of red cloaked guards marched down the streets, their spears skewering any who didn't move out of their way, but no matter how many rioters fell, there were always more to take their place. Ten would be slain in an alley, and the rocks, mud, bottles and shit would still rain down on the guards regardless.

The mob had no conscience, and no matter how much they claimed it was justice for their High Sparrow, they had no reason or motivation to commit violence other than for the sake of committing violence. You were either part of the crowd, or you were the enemy. Us or them. The Man watched it roam around the city, devouring those that stood in its way, destroying what it could. Many probably didn't realise that they were lighting fires next to their own homes and killing the shopkeepers who sold them bread. In that moment only fire and blood could sate them, and no matter how many they killed how much they destroyed, it would never be enough.

They would burn the whole city down if they could, just so that they could be king of the ashes.

They had barred the city gates once the fires started. It was not that the guards did not want to let the rioters out, they needed to stop more getting in. As it was the struggle could go either way, there had been corpses wearing cloaks of red and gold as well. Even without the corpses The Man could tell they were guards, they were treated a lot less kindly than other bodies.

He briefly wondered who it was they had sent to follow him.

" _So Mister Carlan you know who he is?" Qyburn asked the man who sat before him._

" _Know? No, Know is a bit of a strong word. I've seen him before and lived… which is more than most can say."_

 _Carlan Stone was a non-descript man. His face had nothing remarkable about it, save for his piercing blue eyes and a small scar on his chin. There was a sharpness about him, a quickness. No matter how much he made himself look at ease, Qyburn knew that he was tensed and ready. He supposed Carlan had learned it during the Rebellion. His clothes matched his face, ordinary. Hardboiled leathers and a light brown cloak to keep the snow off him. If it had not been for the sword at his belt, he could have just been another merchant._

 _Qyburn's birds had picked him out immediately. He had been at ease throughout the first day of the riots, he had sat and drank in a tavern. He had laughed at the nervous jokes and songs but had made none of his own. He had sat and laughed till the rioters came. From the way Qyburn heard it they intended to burn the 'den of sin' down and any who remained along with it. The Innkeeper had hurriedly promised two hundred silver pieces to any who stopped the rioters._

 _That was where Qyburn's messenger had found Carlan, still drinking and laughing. His purse fatter and his sword bloody from the four men he had gutted in under a minute._

" _Could you pick him out of a crowd?" Qyburn asked, he had been in luck. His network had told him that Carlan was a fierce bounty hunter indeed._

 _Carlan exhaled and showed a small smile. He leaned towards Qyburn, but his eyes held no mirth._

" _That's a man you don't forget." Then the ease returned to his face. He leaned back in his chair and made a show of rocking it slightly, as if he couldn't be troubled by anything in the world._

" _So mister Carlan, what is your price?"_

" _To kill him? Hmmp… " He raised his eyes to the ceiling as if doing sums in the air, always the joker "let's see… twenty thousand, gold." He said it dead seriously._

" _Twenty thousand? Is that some sort of joke?" Qyburn could not help but question, he knew bounty hunters were greedy, but this? You could buy a stout holdfast with that. His eyebrows had shot up at the ludicrous suggestion._

" _Look mister… Qyburn. That 'man'" he put just enough emphasis on the word "Is the scariest thing I have ever seen, and I don't feel no shame in admitting that. And I look I have seen some terrible things."_

 _Qyburn didn't care what he had seen, twenty thousand gold crowns!_

" _Yes, I understand that bu-"_

 _Carlan held up his hand to silence him._

" _Were you at the Trident Mister Qyburn… no I didn't think so." He paused, his eyes grew less piercing. They became unfocussed, as if he was seeing something else, somewhere else "Now, over the years, the story of that battle has become somewhat… romanticised. They talk about as if it was some heroic clash between Dragon and Stag, two grand armies and a decisive final encounter!" His voice was loud during the declaration, but then it grew softer… and younger "There weren't nothing grand about what I saw that day. Tell me, have you ever seen a man drown? Course you probably have most people have at one point or another, but what if it weren't water that he drowned in? What if it were blood, what if that blood wasn't even his? All that mattered was that duel between Robert and Rhaegar, so no one spares a thought for what happened to us foot soldiers. We fought in a river that ran red." His voice became unfocused as well, he told the story as if it had happened to someone else and he had watched "It got so hard to fight cause of all them bodies that kept floating around and bumping into you, just being carried off downstream." He rubbed his palm against the back of his closely shaven grey, brown hair "I saw a man who had the back of his head taken off. I could see his brain… what was left of it, cause there weren't no skull to cover it." He leaned in and spoke quietly as if telling Qyburn a secret, but his voice was thick was emotion. His eyes gazed into a distance Qyburn couldn't possibly see "Thing was, he didn't die… he just kept on swinging that ol axe of his" he swallowed "but the whole time he was doing so, he was crying, as if… as if he wanted to stop, but couldn't. I watched him swing that axe of his, on and on, crying while he did so, he swung that damn thing… till an arrow" he tapped his forehead with his finger, in a spot just above his left eye "went through his head, right here. Then that poor bastard finally died." The pain behind those blue eyes, was very real. Carlan leaned back in his chair once again and the mask of ease returned but Qyburn saw it for what is was now, a mask._

" _Now Mister Qyburn, I'm telling you this, so that you know that I have seen some scary things, but ain't all that shit on the Trident compare to a fucking encounter with 'him'… and I've had two. So twenty thousand it is."_

 _After the contract had been ironed out and payment promised, Carlan wondered the streets. He dodged the larger crowds, but wasn't afraid to leave just one more body behind him, then another, then another. Carlan told himself it was self-defence but he could have chased the peasants off without killing them, but the fact was he didn't want to just chase them off, he wanted to kill them. He was tired of all the violence that these imbeciles wrought, it was meaningless, pointless and it served no purpose, they disgusted him and he didn't mind showing it. He had joined the Rebellion to fight for something, something he believed in. Had believed in. But a sense of duty can only deceive a man for so long._

 _Carlan knew the moment it had changed, as he was lying wounded in the aftermath of the Trident. He did not know how, but in some twist of fate he had lain next to an 'enemy' pikeman. He had had a sword go through his stomach, Carlan had only taken a dagger in the leg, but it had still brought him down. He knew that the pikeman wouldn't live through the night, but he had lain next to him regardless, he could have killed him, ended the suffering, but he had had enough killing for one day, besides he didn't know if he was even strong enough to lift the dagger._

 _He remembered holding the man as he had cried, for who only the gods knew. Carlan had held him until he finally slipped away deep into the afternoon, it took him a while to realise he had been crying too._

 _He had examined the dead man's face, it didn't look so different from his, or the man who had stood next to him before the battle, or the one that lay three paces away. His colours were different, but other than that they were the same. Same red blood that had stained the ground, same bodies now gone stiff and cold._

 _After the Trident, he had marched to Kings Landing with the other 'victorious' troops. The new King had congratulated them on how bravely they had fought. He had heard nobles and lords declare what a glorious triumph it had been. He tried not to kill them right there. There was nothing victorious about trying to take off a man's breeches because he had shit them in pain when his arm was severed. Or the man who had calmly asked around if anyone had seen his brother when all knew his brother was gone._

 _Who would sing songs for the pikeman? Who would sing ballads for the bodies that now lay at the bottom of the river? For the men who had died believing in duty, believing till the very end that they had made a difference? Carlan knew that they probably had helped win the war for Robert, but it didn't matter to those soldiers anymore._

 _And now Robert was dead, and his son was dead, and Rhaegar was dead, so what had the point been? Carlan asked himself over and over why he had fought, what stupidity had possessed him to see horrors that should be reserved for hell._

 _At least he knew now why he did what he did. Just one more, big contract and he would buy himself a manor house in Pentos. He had forgotten how many times he had told himself that, but still it drove him forward. He knew why he fought and it wasn't for duty or glory or honour, no, he fought for him. He had a clear reason, he woke every morning knowing why he did what he did. It was more than Carlan could say for the rioters. And without reason, what separated man from beast? The rioters had no reasons to burn, rape and pillage so he killed them like beasts._

 _The constant pounding storm made it hard to tell, but it was around midday when Carlan saw his target. A shadow slipping across the empty, rain spatterred spaces. Not hurrying, but not taking his time either. Carlan took a deep breath before following him._

 _Just this one last contract._

 **Thanks for all the support. I do appreciate it.**


	23. Chapter 23

"Who hired you?"

When Carlan heard the voice behind him, he knew it was already too late. He had followed the shadow into an alley, but when he turned off the cobbled street into the small gap between the buildings, the alley had been empty, it was only after he moved half way to the street on the other side that he realised something was wrong, he would have seen his target running away or stalking down the alley. Instead it had been empty. At least it had been empty until he heard those words behind him.

The rain had long since soaked through his cloak. He felt sodden and cold, but in that moment his blood burnt with fear. He knew that if he made any sudden moves, any abrupt turns, he would likely be dead or crippled before he finished turning around.

Tentatively, trying to keep the ease in his voice Carlan spoke "It's been a while since last we met."

"Who hired you?" there was no variation in pitch, emotion or tone between the two identical questions, just the same emptiness Carlan remembered. He heard that emptiness in some of his darkest moments and in the loneliest rooms of his mind that he refused to enter. Not even a touch of recognition in that question.

"You know I always wondered what became of you, where you went… after all that business in Old Town." The ease was strained now, very strained.

"Your employer's fate is already sealed, but you can still save yourself. Who hired you?" It was much of a final warning as Carlan had ever heard.

Carlan swallowed, he hoped he was not making a grave mistake.

"The Queen's man. He's the one who hired me." Carlan exhaled as he finished. He had cast his bets now.

"How much was the contract?"

"Twenty thousand" Carlan said softly "Twenty thousand for your death."

"You know who I am and you took the contract anyway?" His voice was less questioning and more perplexed "That's not very smart."

"Truth be told, this was supposed to be my last contract. The last before I retire." Every contract was like that, every contract was his 'last'.

"So you have a purpose for wanting to acquire money?" The voice was soft. The wrong answer would lead to Carlan's death, he was sure of it.

"Yes. Yes I do. I want to go to Pentos and buy a manor house. Get away from all this. These lands hold nothing for me anymore." He felt like he was blabbing, but he had to say it, someone had to hear it.

"There's no running from your fate, only postponing it."

"I understand."

"Do you?" the merest hint of irritation flickered across the voice "People always say that they understand… until their time comes, then they no longer understand."

"I've seen death, I know I can't avoid it forever." Carlan spoke the truth.

"Will you avoid it today?"

Carlan looked up. He saw the clouds that had gone from black to grey, he felt the drizzle on his face. He hoped it wasn't the last thing he would ever feel. The droplets ran off his cheeks.

Carlan answered simply.

"I don't know."

* * *

The Man walked back to the Red Keep. The rain touched him, but he did not feel it. He knew what needed to happen now, even if the Queen did not. The riots appeared to have quietened as the afternoon had progressed. Perhaps they had all been killed. Perhaps not. The light was watery but it still made an improvement to the darkness that had shrouded the city the entire morning. The vague light of the sun shone a golden glow behind the clouds. A brilliant light, that lay tantalisingly out of reach.

A body lay in the centre of the street. It wore bloodied rags, and had unfocussed eyes that stared away into nothing. A lone crow perched upon the corpse, but it was not tearing at the flesh. Its dark, black eyes followed The Man as he walked down the deserted street. Studying him, intently. Then it leapt into the air, crying its bloodcurdling call to all who would hear. The Man did not watch as the crow fluttered into the sky and merged with the clouds.

* * *

Cersei had watched as the city burned. She cared not. The fires were a celebration, a celebration of the death of her enemies, the securing of her son's reign. However, they had not yet been able to retrieve the bodies from the Sept as the mob seemed to savagely attack any who left the Red Keep, but she would keep trying, she wanted to see them, see them both lying there defenceless in death, all their schemes and plots rendered nought by a single blade. The people would be quietened, brought to heel. No rabble could challenge their rightful lord. It was their right to rule.

She allowed herself a smile. This was the beginning, the start of a new age for Westeros. With the lesson she had taught the Tyrells, she doubted they would rise again. There were still threats of course, Dorne, possibly the North, but that could wait, and they could be taught to obey their rightful rulers. But what troubled her was a nagging question.

What type of new age would it be?

It seemed absurd to her. She had spent so long, orchestrating the security of her house on the throne that she had rarely stopped to pause and think what their rule would be like once the fires of war were extinguished, once the levies had returned to their homesteads. The possibilities stretched before her infinitely. The Lannister's would found a new dynasty and the history books wold remember her, Cersei Lannister, the woman who had won the Game. The Lannister's would rule for a hundred years at least, and if they played the eternal Game correctly, possibly forever.

Then why did she feel such… unease. She dismissed it, it must be the winter. It was unusually harsh, but it would pass, they all did.

'Winter has come' she thought before laughing softly to herself. There were no Starks left to utter those words.

She watched from her balcony as another house went up in flames. The rioters could burn as much as they wanted, it would not change anything. Nothing would bring their Sparrow back. She had learnt the hard way that religion was dangerous, she had tried to use it as her own weapon, but in the end the gods had not saved their High Sparrow, so clearly he was not as important to their plans as he thought himself to be.

She heard the door creak open behind her. She did not even rise from her seat. The view was too perfect, the view of victory. She heard the clink of mail, and the soft dragging of a heavy cloak. The steps were hurried though, as if the Kingsguard were all but running across the room.

"What is it? I gave word not to be disturbed." She asked the Kingsguard, she had yet to see his face, but from the lightness of the steps it could not be 'Robert Strong'. Another tool at her disposal, oh yes, all her remaining would kneel before her, even if their legs had to be taken off before they did so.

"Your Grace" came the voice of one of the Kettleback's, though she could not quite remember which one. The voice was filled with distress. She wondered what had happened.

'It's your son."

She knocked the chair over as she stood as she turned to face him.

"What's happened." She could only hear the concern in her own voice.

"He… he fell." His voice was full of uncomprehending shock.

Her intake of breath came quickly, but shakily. She steadied herself.

"Is he… Is he alright?" from the look in his eyes, her son was clearly not alright.

Kettleback opened his mouth to speak, but then twitched. Through the visor she saw his eyes grow confused, then shocked, then afraid.

"Ser are you-"

He crashed to the ground with a clang of mail hitting stone.

In the doorway stood a dark figure. His bow was still raised, but she had not even heard him fire the arrow. The broad head had gone into the base of Kettleback's neck, penetrating through the mail between helmet and chest plate. The figure calmly walked up to the body. Kettleback made a mumbled groan, either a plea or just wordless pain, but The Man simply drew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it and fired in one swift motion. The second arrow went straight through the chainmail guarding the base of the skull and into Kettlebacks head. Cersei heard him exhale his final breath. She looked at the figure who had walked in as her dreams had shattered.

"Are you here to kill me?" She asked shakily. She felt numb as if the world had just crashed into her life. As if she had woken from a pleasant dream to a horrifying reality.

"Power is very relative don't you think?"

"What?" she was confused, had this man come to torment her in her grief?

"When last we met, you had all the power. Yet now I do." Whereas before the voice had been filled with nothing, it now held traces of irritation, anger even.

"I suppose that's true." She tried to force resistance into her voice. She would not die with tears in her eyes, if she could help it she would not die at all, she had worked too hard for this. "What do you desire most in this world? I can give it to you. Money, power, land. Name your price." She told him resolutely. She would not die, for her son's memory, for all she had had to endure, she would not die. She would offer him anything. Even herself.

"That's the problem. You all think everybody can be bought, and those that can't, can be made to fear, to submit." she could hear the anger clearly now. Those eyes were as impassive as ever, but deep behind them, a dark fire burnt "you're driven by money and power and nothing else. Power for the sake of power, money for the sake of money."

"I want see my children and my family secure on the throne. That can only be done with power."

The Man tilted his head. Looking through her with those empty eyes. She did not know what he saw.

"Really? Is that why they're all dead?"

The dark fire in that abyss of nothing was the last thing Cersei Lannister ever saw.

The view she had marvelled at, the fires and smoke that had leapt, twisted and danced under the sky, continued to burn long after the light in her green eyes went out.

 **I'll be away over Easter, so I won't get a chapter out for a while. Thanks for all the support and let me know your thoughts on the story.**


	24. Chapter 24

He had left the Red Keep the same way he had arrived, unnoticed. He doubted the bodies would be found until the late evening. The storm itself had retreated somewhat, sweeping back out to sea where the clouds swirled, pooled and no doubted marshalled their forces for another assault, but for the moment the storm had subsided. The wind, however, took no such reprieve, it howled as the city burned. Screaming around corners and carrying the stench of Kings Landing through the air. The menacing howl was the only sound that could be heard in the deathly silence that shrouded the Keep. The gust swept up the dust upon its wing and flung it carelessly in every direction. Tiny particles of shrapnel that stung exposed skin.

As he crossed one of the many balconies, The Man heard the bells toll. The low sonorous rings that announced the death of the King. Even those bangs could not fill the unnatural silence that hung over the castle. The monarchs were gone, all who could have sat the throne had now left the world. The iron throne sat empty. The castle held its breath as if unsure what to do now that its heart had stopped beating.

The grand towers and sweeping walls looked down on The Man sadly. No fires burned in the throne room, no servants hurried through the hall, no knights strolled proudly through the gardens. The Man hardly noticed the lack of humanity. The silence suited him, it always had.

He briefly wondered how many times he had been walked these corridors that bled with the stink of corruption and manipulation. How many times, he had slipped away in the shadows between these walls. The Red Keep had known him for a long time and with each visit he had brought sorrow. Winterfell, Dragonstone, Highgarden, Sunspear, Oldtown and more, he had seen them all. He had watched the players and the rules change, but the Game always stayed the same. In his time he had learnt something the rest had failed to notice. There were no winners in their Great Game, only those who survived longer than others. In the end, they all lost, some just took longer to do so.

He knew that in time the castle would return to life. Accusations would be made, revenge would be sworn, nobles would gather and knights would lust for blood, the treachery that lay at the heart of the keep would breed new plots, new lies, new plans and the Game would continue. The Game would go on until the end of time or the fall of mankind, whichever came first.

He moved through the courtyards and passages until he came to the outer wall and looked down upon the city below. The smoke still billowed from a dozen points, but it was lighter now. Soft grey hands of vapour grasped at the sky instead of the dark tendrils of oily black that had belched smoke earlier. He had seen the city burning before. He had watched as the dragons were cast down and the stags took their place. He had looked on from the shadows as the New King was heralded as the start of a new era. A new dynasty, a new dawn. But where was the King now? Two more had come after him, each heralded as the true saviour of the Kingdoms… and where were they now?

Returned to the dust. Dead like all the peasants they held in such contemptuous regard. Their royal, sacred flesh rotting and turning putrid. Their fabled looks fading into dust. Their regal clothes decaying just as their corpses did.

The Man had noticed something else in his time. The people of this land, rich and poor alike, longed for the times that were past. The glory days of their youth, the days when children had respected their elders, the days when there had been honour in battle, nobility in conflict. The good old days. But they were a lie. There had been no glory era of this land. They had always fought and killed and raped and pillaged, there had been no glory times, no perfect golden era. They remembered the times when they had been strong and youthful, with the world at their feet. Their talk about the superiority of the past was just that… talk. Fearful talk as they realised that they were no longer the future, they were now part of the past. They were growing old. They were what they had always been, what they always would be. He knew this better than anyone.

The bells were still ringing their mournful song as The Man reached the gates of the Keep. The guards clung to the walls like fleas. Many had bloodied faces and mud streaked armour. Even more had bloodied weapons. Red and Gold cloak alike sat recovering within the protection of the wall. They cast fearful glances at the bell tower. The Man began to hear the low droning muttering from the grey city scape he knew lurked beyond the closed barred gate. The Man saw one or two lips murmuring in prayer. If the mob attacked, would they be able to hold the gates? The exhausted men of the watch looked unsure. They spoke fearfully amongst themselves in small groups, casting glances over their shoulders. Some merely sat and stared into nothing, their bodies were present, but their minds were far away. Away from all the mud and fire and storm. They all knew that the bells could only mean one thing and many likely questioned why they defended a throne, upon which no one sat.

The Man walked passed the gates and kept walking. No one stood to block his path, and if any felt his gaze they didn't show it. Eventually he slipped out the keep and into the streets and alleys beyond. He saw bodies, hundreds at least. None yet old enough to become bloated. This one wore the clothes of a farmer, this one a merchant, a brawler, a minstrel, a whore. The list went on. Another man might have wondered why a young boy, barely a teen, youthful and slim now lay with a knife in his skull, alone and abandoned in the mud, but his way was not to question why. For him there were no questions, only certainties and uncertainties. Black and White. Life or Death. It either was or it was not.

All that happened and all that did not was fate, and who was he, no, who was anyone to question fate? If a man was fated to die on a certain day he would kill them. He was and always had been an instrument of it. He did not kill for pleasure, he did not kill for faith, and he did not kill for revenge. He merely killed or did not kill.

From the moment the Queen had sent Carlan after him, she had sealed her fate. She had made her choices and she had met her consequences. When he had taken the contract of the Sparrow and the other Queen, their fates had been sealed for them. But it was still their choices, their actions and their beliefs that had put them in his path. And who was he to question fate?

He saw the charging horse too late. Half ablaze, the terrified creature rushed down the alley like a living pyre of fear and panic. He felt the beast collide with his body and then, for a brief instant darkness took him. There were no visions, no judging gods, no mothers or lovers urging him onwards, only an instant of darkness. An instant that was an eternity, an instant that stretched into hours, into years and aeons-

He could feel the cracks in his ribs as soon as his eyes opened. The Man staggered to his feet, clutching his side. The city murmured in anger around him. He could still taste the smoke which wafted in the air. His breath was laboured and heavy, as he tried to compensate for the air that had been knocked out of him. He could taste blood in his mouth and could feel an icy liquid o his scalp.

Using the slicked stone walls, he steadied himself. Then, eyes unfocused, he turned to see his attacker. The horse had burst out the opposite end of the alley and had fallen dead in the deserted street, the flames all but extinguished. Almost instantly a crow descended on the poor creature. It did not peck greedily at the still warm flesh, but rather studied the animal intently with its dark beady eyes before taking to the air again.

"Son are you alright?" an elderly woman's voice came from behind him.

The Man didn't even look over his shoulder as he limped away unsteadily.

"Mister, you just got hit by a horse! You ought to come inside and sit down for a moment." It was a different voice. A young woman's voice, filled with concern. Again he did not hear the words, only moved forward. He always moved forward, always.

The young woman spoke again but he did not hear her words. He heard the distress, the apprehension, the anxiety but not the words. He turned the corner and moved towards the outer walls without saying anything. The voices called after him, but he did not hear them.

His body needed rest, needed to heal. He could feel the broken bones, the cuts and scrapes, the blood on his forehead. The sounds of unrest roared from the direction of the keep. The distant shouts of a wounded beast, shouts of chaos and panic. Perhaps this time, there would be nothing left of the city.

Tywin Lannister had found his work far too simple that day the city had burned, he had wanted to send a message, a bloody brutal message of his new allegiance. Tywin had not expected each target to have been killed with a single short sharp wound that left barely a mark on the bodies and killed each victim near the second it had been made. Tywin had sent his men back to the royal chambers to ensure that the bodies were desecrated in every sense of the word. The Man had watched from the balconies as the shattered, bruised, blood-soaked corpses were laid down and displayed in the throne room like trophies for the new King. Other men might have felt remorse or guilt or sorrow, he had just watched.

He staggered onwards until he came upon the Mud gate. The great oaken, iron bound, doors had been opened. More than that they had been hacked, burnt and hammered. The Guards lay dead. For all their gleaming armour and fine forged weapons, they had not been able to stop the hail of rocks and the barrage of blunt clubs that had eventually brought them down. Despite the distant screams of violence, the gate was eerily silent. A throng of humanity marched through these gates on a daily basis, yet now they were silent and lifeless, not a living soul was in sight. The hills and cliffs of Blackwater Bay could be seen beyond the gaping hole that once been the gate. The wind gusted through the opening, rustling the cloaks and rags of guard and rioter alike. Stirring the last flakes of the pitiful slush left from the last snows. It whistled through the opening. He staggered through the gates and left the murmuring hatred and destruction behind him.

By the time The Man found himself surveying the city, it was late afternoon, but the grey-white clouds that blanketed the sky overhead kept the light in a constant muddy, hazy illumination, rather than the rays the weak winter's sun should have cast upon the bleak landscape. From his vantage point, the man could see the dead brown grass and muddied snow that stretched to the horizon. The cold seemed to leech into his surroundings. He knew he could of let it sap into him, allow it to slowly steal his strength and softly invite him to lay down and be embraced by its cold grasp, but he refused to feel it. He knew a cold that was not a soft slow death, but a biting animal that did not gently lull a man into an endless sleep, it savaged men with its icy talons or mauled them to death with fangs of bitter frozen aggression. There was nothing gentle about it, it was a brutal horribly cold demise that left you conscious just long enough to realize that you had lost your fight with a creature you could not hope to defeat, only evade.

He sat down gingerly for a moment on a rocky outcrop and watched as the dark storm loomed and prepared to batter Kings Landing once again. Then a tiny gap in the impenetrable barrier was exposed and a single golden beam of radiance slipped from the sky to fall upon the city. He did not hear any sounds of rejoice from the city at what could be their last glimmer of light. No cries to the heavens in thanks, no tears of joy at the solitary beam of warmth and light, only an empty, whistling silence that he knew very well. The low, almost imperceptible howl of the wind was the only sound as the last weakened blaze of glory, shone down on the ungrateful city. The last of the true, beautiful light of the sun graced Kings Landing as the storm rumbled in warning and anger. The light would fade in the onslaught of the clouds, and it would fade soon.

The Man did not wait to see it happen. By the time the final breath of the dying summer faded fully, The Man had gone. He limped away down the hill and onto what remained of the road, and kept walking. He saw no travellers, not even a farmer in the fields or a highwayman lurking in the brush. He was alone, all except for the silence, the cold, impassive silence which kept his company, the silence which followed him, the silence that surrounded him.

It always had, and it always would.

 **I do apologise for taking a bit longer to update than usual (Easter commitments). Thanks for all the feedback and support, it really does help! If you have any questions don't hesitate to ask them!**

 **We've reached the end of Act 2 and I certainly intend to do an Act 3. Whereas Act 2 was predominantly focussed on The Man, I would like the (hopefully) longer Act 3 to focus more on Dany, those that surround her and their changing characters.**

 **Cheers for now.**


	25. Chapter 25

**After a lot of thought, I've decided that this story is drawing to a close. As such I've decided that this will be an epilogue and the final chapter of this story**

 **Despite this being my most successful story, I don't want to continue it to the point that it loses what makes it interesting and it just becomes boring and played out. This story is meant to be poignant and raise questions that don't necessarily have easy answers. My intention with this story was to deconstruct a 'traditional' narrative and I wanted to question story telling and the tropes and common themes/plots of fan-fiction in general.**

 **While fan-fiction can be an incredible way to keep the spirits of our favourite stories alive, I believe that occasionally we need to look at 'different' stories that are out of our usual comfort zone of our favourite pairings living happily ever after and our most beloved characters triumphant. There are plenty of excellent little stories that hardly get any attention because they're 'different' to what is 'comfortable' for us. So I encourage you to seek out the lesser known stories, read the oft forgotten Horrors/Sci-Fi's and Westerns of the ASOIF section. They might just surprise you, just as this story hopefully did.**

 **I'm so grateful for all the support this little 'alternative' story of mine has gotten and if I can get just one reader to think and consider the intention, themes, imagery, questions or characters of the story after they've finished reading, then I have succeeded in my goal.**

 **There will be no author's notes at the end, and the ending (as well as a lot of the story) is up to your interpretation. I have my own interpretation on the themes and events, but I would love to hear yours as well. So without any more musings, let's dive into the ending of 'No Country for the Old'.**

They had marched South. Through the endless snow cloaked fields they had trudged on. Spearmen and horse marching side by side in the cold as dragons ranged overhead. A grand army, possibly the last grand army.

The weeks at Winterfell had not been kind to the Queen, she had taken on a more haunted look, thinner, less light in her violet eyes. The fire and zeal for conquest that had filled her for so long was now burning low, if at all. But she marched her army forward, if only because she knew not what else to do. Marched on to claim her 'birth right'.

It was a ridiculous concept now that she considered it, that one could come into this world and be entitled to something. How could a child, which had just entered the world as a small, confused babe be entitled to the achievements of her parents and of her family before her. It had seemed simple fact to her once, a concrete truth, the way the world works. Many other things had once seemed fact to her too.

For a long time she had thought that the assassin still shadowed her, that she could still feel that vast cold empty gaze upon her, it had taken her days to realize that the emptiness no longer came from without, but from within. As if the cold of this godforsaken land had wormed it's way into her, as if it had seeped into her soul and filled her with ice.

They had marched South, leaving only a skeleton garrison to man the castle. 'We could have just left the castle abandoned' she thought grimly, there was no one left in the North who would offer her any opposition. Well not any direct opposition, but she was still an outsider in this land. The march found only empty towns, deserted hovels, abandoned farms. Save for her forces, the North had seemed to empty itself around her. Outside of her column of soldiers they didn't see a soul.

By the time they were halfway to the neck, the deaths started. Arrows from the shadows of the trees. Archers that would attack with a volley of three or so shafts before melting away. Massive oaks trunks felled onto the road as a crude barricade. Sentries with their throats cut in the dark. Horrible jawed traps that snapped shut on legs both human and horse alike, mangling muscle and bone together between the rusted iron jaws. And the snow, the damn infernal snow that assaulted them every step of the way. Short of mounting her dragon and burning the country side for miles there was nothing she could do against her many unseen foes. The attacks did no substantial damage, but the screams of the dying and bodies of the dead soon cast an atmosphere of fear over the march.

They were intruders, and if they remained, the land would swallow them whole, they wouldn't find the bodies until the next summer, if there ever was another summer.

The hours of daylight slowly, but surely dwindled. The night stretched itself longer and longer, leisurely consuming what weak light remained. Even the stars hid their faces behind the monstrous clouds, as if they were afraid to look down at what the world had become.

Arrows in the night. Bodies in the morning. A march through the desolation.

The chatter and noise of the column dwindled and died. The silence grew more imposing, more encompassing.

Daenerys wondered if it was cold in the crypts of Winterfell, if the snow ever penetrated into those endless dark stone halls.

She ate but still grew thinner. Even the lit braziers in her tent couldn't keep out the cold. Dreams offered the only respite from her grey monotonous reality. Dreams of places far away.

The cold spectre occupied her thoughts as much as the dead. She still did not know who he was, where he had come from, where he was going? Why did everyone say that his voice was a heavily accented drawl unlike any they had ever heard? Why had he let her live? Why had he killed so many others? What did he even look like?

That night. The night she had been spared, the night a part of her had died, he had been there, she wondered if he had ever left.

Bolton's, Targaryen's, random travellers the assassin had killed them all. A man without allegiance, without purpose. A shadow. A gust of wind. Where was he now? What had he left behind? Was he still chasing her? No, that much she knew. In a way she needed to be chased. Chasing something she couldn't have, being chased by something she could never understand. The chase had given her purpose, a reason to move forward. A purpose.

What could men do in the face of such uncaring violence? Such impassionate death. Such cold extinguishing of life. Destruction without purpose. Purpose. What were they without it? Who were they with it? Questions, questions with no answers. So many lives had been defined or destroyed by purpose. The purpose to rule, to govern, to hold power, to grow old in comfort.

She wondered if any of the young in the march would grow old.

Rules, they defined the Players of the Game as much as Purpose. Even if the rule was horrifying, even if the rules were there to be broken, they were still rules. How did you fight something that had no rules? How did you comprehend an entity to which the human concepts of rules and morality did seemingly not apply? Ethics and actions that could not be understood. Even the Others had rules.

Jon Snow had tried. He had ran, he had evaded, he had fought and bled until he could not anymore, until the world had dealt its final uncaring judgement. It had not been The Man who had killed him. It was almost funny now that she thought about it, he had successfully ran from one certainty only to fall victim to another. She didn't know at what point her laughter changed to tears.

She wondered how he felt. How the assassin felt about a chase not completed. As fast as Jon had ran, he had pursued him. She wondered if that pursuit had been what killed him. If the assassin had not attacked that night in Castle Black seemingly so long ago, would Jon Snow still be alive? Or would the Nights Watch have turned on him? Or the Bolton's assassinated him?

The more she considered it, the more she understood that he had only prolonged his destiny, he had run from his fate until he could run no longer.

They marched on.

Even Moat Cailin was empty. The three towering spires were devoid of any life. The Northmen probably wondered why they guarded a land 'ruled' by a foreign Queen, that or they knew that they didn't stand a chance against dragons that could turn them to cinders within their own fortifications. Perhaps they had questioned if their death would serve any purpose, or if they would just be more nameless casualties in a war that hadn't really ended since the rebellion.

They had camped amongst the crumbling stones that night, the empty castle had welcomed them with silence.

That night, she sat in the courtyard of the behemoth keep and watched the sky above. The night was bitterly freezing but she hardly felt it as she studied the clouded heavens above. The sounds of the army seemed muted around her and when she listened beyond those muted conversations, listened past the quiet talking, she heard… nothing.

She saw as the blanketed sky slowly parted, to reveal the beauty of the infinite night beyond.

The moon cast imperceptible silver rays down below, sending dappled light dancing through the shadows. Not quite brightening the land, but adding a sheen to the darkness. The stars blinked down on the world. Pinpricks of diamond light that spread out across the darkness above. Even the clouds took on shape and form as the moon cast its gaze upon them.

She felt at peace under that infinite darkness. She took a strange comfort in her own insignificance. No matter what happened to this world, those stars would always look down on the landscape, the moon would always watch the swirling power of the sea. The universe would go on, and that night sky would be there until the end of time, even if there was no one left to witness it.

"You will catch your death, out here your Grace." The clinking armour had announced Ser Barristan's arrival. She smiled, softly and sadly to herself.

"What happened to Jon Snow was… unfortunate." He told her "But when you get as old as I am, you realize that such is the way of the world."

She turned to him with a questioning look on her face.

He did not sit, but merely looked up at the stars as she had done before he spoke.

"When I was but a boy, I squired at Swann Hall, it was a keep of middling size, nothing grand, but enough to house a fair number of men. I was not the only squire, there was another lad. He was a farmer's son, older than I was, but good with the lance and even better with the sword and quite fair looking. Most women would have had him, and he could have married far above his station, perhaps even to rule his own lands and hold his own keep one day. His future was bright and he was a friend to me, showing me how to strap on my armour and keep my sword honed when the other men-at-arms wanted nothing to do with a green boy, who had already bested several of them with a practice blade. The lad's future was bright and I aspired to be like him, witty and brave" Barristan still stared at the sky.

"What happened to him?" She asked softly.

"He went out riding alone one day… and we found him strung up by his neck the next."

"Who did it? Why?"

"To this day, I do not know. It was then that I realised, that anybody can die. Aside from a few bruises, he'd never hurt anyone. He was a good man, and he still died. Your Grace, in this world we do our best to do the right thing, to be the right people, to oppose evil and protect those we love… but sometimes it doesn't matter. The vilest rapist can live till one-hundred, but that poor, good lad died at only fifteen. No one even remembered his name a month later, even I forgot it. The world kept turning. All through the rebellion as countless men and friends died, the world just kept on moving forward. I know not the name of the poor soul who took an arrow for me on the march to the trident. I'd never even seen his face before the shaft took him under his helmet, but he saved my life, and all the thanks he got was a shallow grave on the side of the road."

They left the castle the next day. Marching over the narrow causeway that split the stinking bog. The days in the Neck passed in a slow dragging manner. Carts got stuck, men went missing, what looked like solid ground could easily turn out to be a foot or two of mud, which eagerly enveloped anything that made contact with it.

The arrows continued to fly. Arrows and darts. Any men unlucky enough to survive soon found themselves dying of the horrific poison which coated the tips. She did burn the landscape then. Scorching the swamp with vast swathes of consuming crackling flame that burnt the strange trees and plants into fine ash. After a few days of the burning the ash rained down as much as the snow. That didn't mean that the arrows stopped.

By the time that had slogged through the marsh nearly a hundred men had met their ends face down in the stinking mud. The ground seemed to claim their bodies as they were buried, rising around the corpses as they sunk.

The South offered only meagre warmth, but it did provided the first real resistance.

She had only stepped forth onto the battlefield once the final screams of the wounded had been silenced. She was told that it had been the last forces of the Riverlands, marshalled against her at the orders of … whoever was left to give them she supposed. Near two thousand foot and three hundred cavalry had taken to the field, no doubt in a glorious final charge of defiance at the invader. The charge had been broken on the Unsullied Phalanx, the Dothraki raiders had run down all those who remained, and the sight of dragons in the sky had been enough to break the resolve of all of the few pitiful survivors.

She had walked the killing fields after the fires had been put out, she had seen the mangled bodies of Riverlanders and Dothraki lying side by side. They had not escaped without casualties. At least a few of the Riverlanders had achieved their goal of a grand last stand. Against less than four hundred organised pikemen and archers, who had remained when the rest of the rabble had fled, the Dothraki chargers hadn't stood a chance as they barrelled into that barbed wall of death. Eventually the square of man and pike had been broken, but there were far too many of her own corpses to call it a victory.

"They do not look that different." She said out loud to no one in particular.

Aside from the shades of their skin, the soldiers from two different continents almost appeared as brothers as the lay there, eyes staring unseeing at each other. The Dothraki footmen had fared slightly better, only slightly. Their curved swords had flooded around the long swords and hard chain-mail of their opponents, striking in the neck, under the arms, in the back of the knee. But that mail had its advantages and against boiled leather, the long-swords had cleft through them as if through taut silk. She had looked over the field then. Looked at the thousands of lives that had been lost… because of her. Hundreds of men had marched to their deaths, and the world seemed darker for it. She grew numb to the horror around her, the soldiers looked upon the battlefield with a sense of grim triumph. This destruction was normal to them, war was just another everyday occurrence. Whereas she had grown numb to the violence, they didn't even feel it anymore.

All in a day's work.

She looked as a banner flapped lazily in the wind, slapping the pole that so tethered it to this Earth. Fighting against the shaft of wood that trapped it, pinned it to the ground. She walked to the banner, untied it and watched as it caught the wind and flew away. Dancing in the air happily as it did so, free of its tether at last.

They marched through the mess. There was no reason to capture any castle in the Riverlands, for her, there was only one prize, only one conquest that could evoke any sense of purpose, dim as it was.

The Westerlands were silent, no forces gathered to take them in the rear. No banner men or lords called the swords together. The forces of The Vale remained hidden and silent, entrenched behind the Bloody Gate, not a stir to indicate that they would take to the field. Not that their walls, natural or manmade would mean anything should Drogon take to the air against them.

Down the Kingsroad they went. Watching as the smallfolk cowered away in their hovels and holds. Hiding from the invading monsters from the North, cowering from yet another army that stamped through the lands. They knew that armies brought only sorrow, violence and destruction, and they had seen far too much already. The land had been scoured around them. Bandits, remnants and rouges reigned supreme, fighting their own wars. Village against village, father against father.

Where was he now? Had he killed again? Did he ever question what he did?

By the time the walls of Kings Landing came into view still no one had stepped forth to oppose them, by that point, she had realized that no one would. There were mutters in the Reach and whispers from Dorne but day after day after snow-filled day they moved on unopposed. It was then that she learned that the ruling family had been all-but wiped out. Cersei Lannister, Tommen Baratheon, Margaery Tyrell, they were all gone. The fires in the city had long since gone out, but as they rode through the open gates into the city, the wreckage stood testament to the carnage that had been wrought here. Half the city appeared to have been consumed by the flames, and only empty streets greeted the new 'liberators' as they trotted through the destruction. Bodies in Lannister cloaks, lying where they had been hunted down by the vengeful mob.

"What happened?" She asked Ser Barristan as she looked at the sooty black ruins surrounding them.

"Your Grace, from what we've been able to gather, the High Septon and Margaery Tyrell were murdered, allegedly by an agent of the Dowager Queen, Cersei Lannister. In response the populace revolted. Both the King and Dowager Queen were found dead some days later. The rioters stormed the Red Keep and eventually slaughtered nearly all inside, but many of the rioters were killed themselves in the process. At this point, what's left of Kings Landing has either fled to the country side or resides in 'The fortress of the People' as they're now calling the Red Keep. Since the storming of the castle there have been four 'Kings' two were murdered by their successors and the third simply disappeared one morning to hear the tale told."

They took the Keep with minor casualties. At their approach the 'defenders' manned the Walls and began slinging stones or firing a few sporadic arrows, but in the confusion, they failed to bar the gate in time. Her forces had poured into the castle and she had watched as the New King, clad in armour stolen from whatever vaults he had plundered, tried to run and was speared through the back by his own man, who then claimed it was a terrible mistake and begged her for forgiveness. Once the 'king' had fallen, the rioters had more or less faded away, back into the city to salvage what life remained to them or had just stood around, meekly, milling about like lost sheep. They stand around purposeless, many had no homes to go back to, no family in the country side. They had lived the dream of playing at nobles for a month or two, but now the dream was over.

She had seen the throne then. The throne that had caused centauries of conflict, hatred and bloodshed. She had walked to it and paced around it, tracing the melted blades with her hands, feeling the dull swords that had once belonged to those who contested her ancestors. In person, the Iron throne was slightly… disappointing. It was not as large as had been described to her and instead of seeming like a ferocious, iron monster, it merely looked like an uncomfortable iron chair. She had sat on it nonetheless. Sat on it and surveyed the empty hall that greeted her. The torches that were not lit, the stain glass windows through which no rays of light shone. She had said her name into that empty hall. Whispering it softly, a whisper that sounded like a bellow in the silence. Then she did below her name, and the walls bellowed it right back.

He had done this. Did he know that?

She had achieved her dream, by law she was now the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the realm, first of her name. She realised that if this was a dream, she might as well dream it while she could, because some time soon, she would need to wake up.

A month later she did.

She sipped the mulled wine as Ser Barristan entered, it did not fill her with warmth as it should of, but the taste reminded her of a warmer climate and of a time when she had been able to see clearly the necessary and the unnecessary, the good and the bad, the fact and the myth. When she had been able to see hope.

"Your Grace, the Nights Watch calls for aid, the dead march on the wall." He looked down at the note he held in his hand, as if not believing the words he was reading.

"By their estimates, there are over two million wights. Stretching from EastWatch to the Shadow tower. They have blocked the entrances, but the word sounds dire."

She had flew North then, not content to make the slogging march back to where she had begun this journey. She felt the wind ripping at her silver hair saw the ground rushing away beneath her over the marsh, over the frozen rivers, over Winterfell, over his grave she flew.

Had the cold preserved his body? Saved his dark features from ruin and decay? Or were those merely childish hopes she wanted to believe to disguise the truth from herseld.

She felt alive, but that only meant that the joy of her flight was soon contrasted by the despair she felt as to who should be riding the other dragons. She made the journey in under a week.

She felt empty as she saw The Wall once more, saw were her story in Westeros had begun and where it would end. She shivered then, despite the warmth of the dragons. The sun had set and night rushed in to greet her like the old friend it was. Possibly the last night

The bitter night air stung at her skin. It was an odd and unfamiliar feeling. It was unlike the slow continuous cold that slowly froze bone and blood and lulled many a man into a gentle, endless sleep. It was more like a wild, starved animal one that gnawed bit at its prey until the body simply could not carry on and succumb to its icy fangs.

No matter how big a fire you lit or what clothes you wore this far North the cold reigned supreme. She reflected briefly on what the teachings of the red priests, how their God fought to liberate the world from darkness and cold.

'You certainly lost the battle up here' she thought darkly as she pulled her cloak slightly tighter around her small frame.

As bad as the cold was, there was a peacefulness in its vast tundra and frigid woods, a harsh beauty and brutal serenity, a far contrast to the blood soaked nest of betrayal and death that was the South. 'It is a wonder that any remains' she thought, without bitterness or blame but with an immense sadness that almost threatened to overwhelm her. The smallfolk that lay dead in their burnt fields, the lone soldier bleeding to death, while his comrades lay still around him. 'They do not look very different when they are dead' she realised, they are all the same in the end.

She had landed at castle black and watched as Rhaegal and Viserion crouched atop the wall and roared into the darkness at the horror they knew approached. Screaming at the dead, challenging them to a final duel. By the time Barristan and her army arrived, the dead had approached. Assaulting the Wall day after day. The men had come then, men from every house, wildlings, the mountain tribes… but it was not enough, every day the creatures got closer to the top, closer to breaking through the defenders who were stretched thin across the vast icy expanse. A final battle, a battle that they were losing.

That Night, she found herself standing some ways back from the Wall. Listening to the fighting. The clanging metal in the dark, the screams, and the shouts all mingled in her ears to create a cacophony of conflict.

Was he fighting on the Wall now? Fighting the dead to try and preserve mankind? Did he even care if mankind was preserved? How had she sunken to the point that he seemed to invade her very mind?

She heard the tell-tale clinking of armour which told her that Ser Barristan had found her, despite her efforts to slip away unnoticed. She did not turn to face him but spoke to the Wall before her.

"I had a dream, last night, a dream about Jon Snow." She paused wondering if he was still there, she didn't know, she didn't care.

"The first part of the dream wasn't so nice, it was dark and cold, like it is here. I was chasing him, but he always got further away, even though I called out to him, he never even turned around to look at me, eventually he disappeared into the blizzard and I couldn't see him anymore, I realised I was sitting on the throne then. I heard a voice asking me what my purpose was now if I even still had one anymore it was his voice. I've never even heard him speak, but I know that it was his voice, it was him that started this and it makes sense that it was him who ended it. The voice came from everywhere and no-where at the same time. I don't remember my answer and I don't remember if he killed me or not but I remember lying on my back looking up at the sky that seemed to stretch forever above me. The second part of the dream was different Jon and I… we were living together in this small village. This village where the sun shone every-day and the green meadows and forests that surrounded never ended, where we were far away from all the scheming and the fighting, a place where we could grow old in peace. I talked with him for hours in a small house, our house, a house we had built together. I don't remember what we talked about, but I was happy, there was no throne, no Wall, no war. Only us in this small, impossible, perfect village. He told me he'd wait for me there, that he'd wait as long as he needed to for me, that he'd fetch me from the dark from the cold."

"Then I woke up."


End file.
